


The Hammer and the Stone

by chains_archivist



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: BDSM, Boys in Chains, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 77,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Emily Brunson</p><p> Jeff Sinclair is gone, John Sheridan has arrived, and Michael Garibaldi has some issues with his new commander -- issues that go beyond propriety and take Garibaldi on a journey of self-understanding, and a hunt for a villain whose evil will leave none of these men unchanged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).
> 
> \--  
> NOTES: The following novella is based on J. Michael Straczynski's television series "Babylon 5." The characters have been used without his permission, and in fact the entire story is completely against the law. Even so, the urge to write stories based in Joe's universe is too strong to resist. No offense is meant, even though offense would no doubt be taken (as well as legal proceedings). Just pretend this is okay, and we'll all go home happy.

_The Hammer and the Stone_

 

"The more abstract the truth you wish to teach, the more you must allure the senses to it." (Nietzsche)   
 

 _Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita_    
 _mi ritrovai per una selva oscura_    
 _ché la diritta via era smarrita._

 _Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura_    
 _esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte_    
 _che nel pensier rinova la paura!_

 _Tant'è amara che poco è più morte;_    
 _ma per trattar del ben ch'i' vi trovai,_    
 _dirò de l'altre cose ch'i' v'ho scorte._    
 

Midway upon the journey of our life   
I found myself within a forest dark,   
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

 Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say   
What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,   
Which in the very thought renews the fear.

 So bitter is it, death is little more;   
But of the good to treat, which there I found,   
Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

 (_La Divina Commedia_, Dante Alighieri; transl. H. W. Longfellow)

 

* * *

**Chapter One** ****

There were times when it just wasn't fair to be on the wagon.

 Michael Garibaldi allowed himself a gusty sigh. Parties were made for drinking. Whether it was champagne at a reception, or a Scotch and water, or a keg of crappy Martian beer. Celebrations should be celebrated, and that meant booze. Even a single shot of something, just to mark the occasion.

 He eyed the half-full glass of tea in his hand. It was nearly the right color to be bourbon. If he just squinted his eyes a little - and held his nose - he could pretend it was -

 "Checking to see if your fortune's in there someplace?"

 Garibaldi looked up, at the smirking features of Stephen Franklin. The doctor grinned, and took a hefty swallow of his own beverage. Clear. Vodka? "Water," Franklin added evenly, his smile warming a little. "I have duty later on. Can't afford to celebrate too much."

 "Will all teetotalers please go to Mr. Garibaldi's side of the room?" Garibaldi snorted, tilting his glass of tea and taking a reluctant sip. "You can of course see why most everyone's over there," he added glumly, and motioned over at the tight clump of people surrounding Ivanova.

 "Drinkers?" Franklin shrugged. "I think you're being a little sensitive, Michael. It is her party, after all. It's her birthday."

 "Yeah." Garibaldi forced a smile. "Guess I don't have much of a party spirit."

 "Well, find it," Franklin urged, and clasped his shoulder briefly. "God knows we could use a little party atmosphere around here. These days..." His voice trailed off. "Hasn't been much partying lately," he said finally, quietly.

 "No," Garibaldi agreed. Franklin looked distinctly uncomfortable suddenly, and Garibaldi felt obscurely guilty. "Go on," he said quickly, smiling. "I know I'm a pain in the ass to be around right now. You don't have to watch over me, Stephen," he added, feeling his smile fading. "I'm okay. Right as rain, and all that."

 Franklin glanced at him, and it was very easy to see the mix of reluctant relief, and lingering responsibility in his eyes. "If you're sure," he said slowly.

 "I'm sure. Go have fun. Okay?"

 "Okay." Franklin grinned briefly at him, and turned to make his way back over to Ivanova's table.

 Garibaldi took a seat at an unoccupied table, and stretched his legs out. Long day, and being forced to be sociable was not how he preferred to end it. Of course, his preferred ending involved alcohol, which was not allowed. Or sex, which wasn't in the picture.

I feel like a stranger, in a room where everyone knows each other.

 It was bullshit. But it felt honest. Since his return to duty, two weeks ago, nothing had felt familiar. Like he'd taken a new job, moved to a new post. Familiar faces looked strange. And new faces were complete unknowns. Unfathomable.

 Commotion at the door caught his eye, and he looked up. New arrival. The illustrious Captain John Sheridan, Starkiller himself, gracing the party with his presence. How nice.

 His dislike was immediate, and bewildering. Garibaldi forced down another swallow of the strong, bitter tea, and made a face. Hell, he should be grateful to Sheridan. The man helped Franklin save Garibaldi's life. Hadn't been for him, Michael would probably be floating for all eternity, zipped in a bag and jettisoned out into space. Deader than dead.

 I don't like feeling I have a debt to someone I don't even know. I don't know Sheridan. Far as I can see, he's all smiles and pretty words, and nothing to show why he came here, why he was chosen to be the new commander.

 Sheridan was smiling now. Laughing at something Ivanova said, giving her a congratulatory hug.

 Looks like I may be the only one having trouble with this transition. Ivanova sure looks happy. Franklin's not acting very heartbroken about it.

 But the guy just fucking smiles too much. So goddamn perky. Makes me want to punch him, just to make that smile go away.

 Garibaldi pushed the tea away, something like revulsion twisting his face. This party idea had been a lousy one. And the last thing he really wanted to be was a black thundercloud, looming off on the horizon. Nope. He rose from his chair, and took the back exit from the room. He was pretty sure no one saw him leave. Or cared, if they did.

 The Zocalo hallway was mercifully quiet. He could make his way home unremarked.

 God, he wanted a drink.

Business as usual. That was the phrase Garibaldi had silently adopted, since his first day back on the job. Business as usual, nothing else.

 It had worked pretty well so far. His time away from work had left him badly behind on events. It was a week before he felt he had any idea what was going on, and it had really only been the past two days that he had felt confident.

 Garibaldi glanced at his morning's schedule. Nothing much, really. Ongoing questioning about a knifing Downbelow. A couple of guys in lockup, detoxing after a scuffle over a poker cheat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He smiled a little. Time enough to do a bit of investigating of his own. The really private kind.

 Captain John Sheridan's jacket was pretty impressive. Even Garibaldi had to admit it. The man's record was virtually spotless. War hero, of course. If there had been any real heroes in the war; from Garibaldi's perspective the entire thing had been a waste of bodies. A terrible, tragic waste. But hero Sheridan had been labeled. Excellent service record as captain. Glowing recommendations, citations for bravery, etc., etc. Very nice.

 He keyed in another level, and had a look at personal records. Wife dead. One sister, who had recently visited Sheridan on the station. Pretty cozy. Education exactly what he'd have predicted. Good schools, perfect officer material.

If you were any more perfect, Sheridan, I think I'd have to kill you just for the hell of it.

 More detail. Acquaintances, academy friends, past colleagues. Sheridan was a popular guy. Of course. Sociable, entertaining.

Don't tell me. Voted "most likely to succeed" by his graduating classmates.

 Yep. Garibaldi wanted to laugh, looking at the addendum on Sheridan's record. How predictable.

 There was nothing here. Nothing but more glowing recommendations, more attributes, more accolades. Sheridan, according to his dossier, was the Man. They should be happy to have him on Babylon 5.

 So why wasn't he happy? Garibaldi closed down the files, leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

Because I don't know you, Sheridan. Nobody's perfect. Everybody's got something to hide. You're just better at hiding it than most. You've got the drill down pat. And because you're Starkiller Sheridan, and this big war hero, and have this glowing record, nobody's been looking deeper. You're probably counting on that, aren't you? But I'm not everybody, Sheridan. I don't like perfection, because I don't believe in it. Nobody's as perfect as you look.

 He sat very still for a moment, considering. And then called up Sheridan's file again.

 Digging deeper, a lot deeper. Checking connections. Sheridan's family was as spotless as he was. Good citizens, workers, all that. What about the wifey? Her background was pretty impressive. Disappeared on a mission. All hands lost. He made a note of that: check more into this soon. Went on. Girlfriends before Sheridan married? One was now a captain herself, and squeaky clean. A couple of girls who'd faded into obscurity following their brief alliance with Sheridan's bright star. One was a housewife on Mars, the other a scientist languishing in academic purgatory back on Earth. Back even further. Girlfriend number one, back during Sheridan's first year in the academy. She'd moved on, too. But not in the academy: dropped out her second year. Where to? Garibaldi threaded the file, linked to new records. McIntyre. Currently living on Io, working as a personnel coordinator.

 Personnel coordinator? A bit of a slide from EA officer training, wasn't it?

 McIntyre. First name Kella. Married briefly, after dropping out of school. Guy was killed in a freighter accident, two years after they married. She moved to Io not long after becoming a widow. Could explain it.

 Her academy dossier was pretty thin. Good student, but somebody had made a few notes on her record. Lacks discipline. More interested in partying than studying. Garibaldi thought briefly, with a quick grin.

This, now. Possibly interesting. "Ms. McIntyre shows great promise, both intellectually and personally. But her association with parties outside the academy suggests a lack of discipline which could cost her credibility."

 Outside the academy? Consorting with the natives, were you, Kella? How middle-class. Shame on you.

 McIntyre had dropped out of the academy just before she'd been suspended. Missed a final exam. No, missed three final exams, and a field training exercise to boot. No excuses; a day later she'd just walked into the administrative office and told them she was leaving.

You meet someone, Kella? Somebody who showed you there was life outside the academy?

 She'd dated Sheridan until dropping out of the academy. He must have dropped her like the proverbial hot potato after that; Garibaldi could find no lingering connection. Or maybe she had dropped him. No telling. Who else had she known? Couple of other cadets, friends, nothing more. Outside connections.

 This, now. Listed as a member of a social club. The Leather Rose Society.

 Now that was interesting.

 It took about fifteen minutes to turn up anything about the club. Even then it wasn't much. Old club, in existence in various forms for a century or more. What kind of club? Garibaldi threaded through fifty years of information before he found anything approaching enlightenment. Even that was just a membership list, and if it was this old, chances were good that the former members weren't active. More current lists, finally, but nothing substantial.

 Leather Rose. Leather? That was Ms. McIntyre's little outside interest? A little kink, just to add spice to life?

 Garibaldi glanced at the chrono on the wall. Getting late, and he had legitimate business to take care of. This little exploration would have to be tabled for now.

 But not forever, he thought silently, as he exited the database and locked his computer in standby mode. Not forever, Captain Sheridan. Maybe this is your little weakness. Like leather, Captain? Maybe have a little bondage experience locked away in your closet, where nobody looks? What about your wife? She into it, too, or did you keep it a secret even from her? Wouldn't surprise me.

 He brushed at his jacket and got to his feet. Like I said, everyone has their secrets. Yours may be a little kinkier than most, but don't think I won't find out. And remember.

About mid-afternoon, things started picking up. A hint, dropped by an itinerant informant whose information might be trustworthy. Might not be. But it was worth checking out.

 "What are we looking for?" Zack Allen gave Garibaldi a curious glance, as they headed down to the docking area.

 "I'm not sure. Just about anything, would be my guess. Maybe nothing." Garibaldi shrugged. "Rumor has it this ship's carrying narcotics. Thought I'd take a look."

 His assistant gave it some thought, nodding in that slow way he had when he was considering what to say. "We arrested eight people on drug charges last week alone," he observed finally. "It's gotta be coming from someplace."

 "Yeah. And the Jove's a natural source. Moving around a lot, never staying in one place for too long. Makes sense."

 It felt right. Even after he'd questioned the Jove's captain, and listened with increasing impatience to the man's impassioned protestations of innocence.

 "I am an honest trader," the man said, face startlingly pale. His hands laced together, but he was clearly trembling. "There's nothing on my ship that is illegal, Mr. Garibaldi. Nothing."

 Garibaldi grinned slowly. "Then you won't mind if we have a little look around, will you?" he asked evenly.

 Now the captain - Travers, Garibaldi thought the name was - looked positively frantic. "I tell you, Mr. Garibaldi, I personally have no objection to your doing just that." He glanced around once, and looked back at the security chief. When he continued, his voice was conspiratorially low. "But I have passengers," Travers stated in a whisper, "who would resent a random search. Important passengers," he said urgently.

 "If they have nothing to hide, then they have nothing to fear."

 "They don't fear you, Mr. Garibaldi. They just don't want anyone -" Travers swallowed audibly. "They just don't want anyone to know they're here," he said meaningfully.

 I don't have patience for this. Not today.

 "Mr. Travers, if you will not agree to let us have a look at your ship, and your cargo, you'll force me to get a search edict," Garibaldi stated heavily. "That will be an imposition for both your crew and your passengers. If there are any," he added with a humorless smile. "I'll take your ship apart, and delay your departure indefinitely. It would be a lot easier if you just let us have a little look-see right now. Are we understanding one another?"

 There was an odd expression on Travers' face. Something that made Garibaldi's educated suspicion perk up and take even more interest. "I can't let you on the ship," the captain said, and Garibaldi narrowed his eyes at the sudden confidence in Travers' tone. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Garibaldi. I just can't allow it."

 I'll just bet you're sorry. Not as sorry as you will be. That I can promise you.

 "Fine. Don't make any plans for tonight, Mr. Travers. You'll probably want to be here when I get back. Just to sit back and enjoy the show." He allowed another smile to slip through. "Be seeing you, Captain." He tilted an ironic bow, and turned, nodding to Zack.

 "It'll be another couple of hours before you can get the search orders," Allen whispered to him, as they left the docking area. "What's to keep him from leaving beforehand?"

 Garibaldi gave him a faintly scathing look. "I tagged his departure orders," he answered, and shrugged loosely. "He can't get away without my knowing about it. Plenty of time to come up with a delay."

 "Whatever you say, Chief." Zack snorted, but his glance was respectful.

It should have been that easy. But it wasn't.

 "Captain, all I need is -"

 "A search edict. Yes, I got that the first four times you said it, Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan paused, and then sighed a little dramatically. The ready smile seemed untouchable. "But you haven't given me a reason that will stand up. All you have is speculation."

 Garibaldi glared at him, and took a firm grip on his ready anger. "I have a tip, sir," he stated tightly. "I think it's worth pursuing. And after talking to that captain, I'm pretty damn sure he's hiding something. Drugs, maybe. All I need is -"

 "Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan's smile had slipped, but he didn't look even remotely rattled. Only this infuriating kind of patience. Patronizing. "I appreciate your dedication to this matter. Bring me back some hard evidence, and I'll give you all the search orders you want. But I can't have you tearing apart some innocent captain's freighter, based on speculation. Maybe you had the leeway to do that, before. But I'm not going to allow it." The smile suddenly returned, all affability. "Find me something concrete, Mr. Garibaldi. And then we'll work this out."

 There were a thousand things he wanted to say. None of which he could, not and keep his job. Nothing for it. Without Sheridan's support this was screwed six ways from Sunday.

 "Understood, sir." Garibaldi clamped his lips firmly on the flood of angry comments he wanted to add, and turned to go.

 Zack was waiting outside, frowning now at Garibaldi's frozen expression. "Get the orders, Chief?" his second asked cautiously.

 "Does it look like I did?" Garibaldi snapped, taking off down the corridor.

 In a moment Zack caught up with him. "What happened?" he blurted, sounding as surprised as Garibaldi had felt.

 "Not enough evidence," Garibaldi grated, not sparing him a look. "Sheridan doesn't give out edicts based on speculation. Never mind the fact that we had a tip. Screw that."

 "What more does he want?"

 Garibaldi laughed once, harshly. "Evidence, Zack." They arrived at the lift, and Garibaldi jabbed the call button with one tense finger. "Well, I guess it'll be evidence enough if we catch Travers red-handed. But in the meantime, we get an influx of illegal narcotics this station need like a hole in the hull."

 There wasn't much Zack could say. And Garibaldi couldn't seem to stop the flow of invective stifled in his chest. "Who the fuck does this guy think he is?" he asked, not expecting a reply. They entered the lift, and Garibaldi paced its tiny confines agitatedly. "I'm not asking for a fucking EA investigation, for crying out loud. A simple search order will do."

 "You don't like Sheridan that much, do you?" Zack gave him a cautiously wry smile.

 "Like him?" Garibaldi glared at him. "He's a pompous, smiling asshole who doesn't know how things work around here. He thinks that he can just wish problems away?" Garibaldi snorted. "Maybe he could just wiggle his fingers back on his ship, and things worked out. But not here. Frankly, Zack? I'm not real impressed with old Starkiller Sheridan. In fact, I think he's a lousy choice for commander. But that's based on *speculation,*" he added in an acid undertone, "so I guess that's unacceptable."

 The rest of the ride continued in silence. Zack wasn't going to say anything, and Garibaldi didn't much care.

 But as they reached their designated level Garibaldi looked once more at Zack. "One thing's for sure," he stated coldly. "Sheridan dropped the ball on this. Don't think I'm going to forget that."

 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

In an odd way, he was looking forward to this.

Sheridan glanced around his office. Desk: immaculate. Shipshape. No pressing items of business right at the moment. Nothing that wouldn't keep, at least. Long enough to accomplish this one rather pressing task.

 He flicked a bit of lint off one sleeve, then laced his fingers together on front of him. And waited.

 Not so long a wait. Perhaps ten minutes, before the chime at his door. "Come," he said loudly enough to be heard.

 "You wanted to see me, sir?" Security Chief Michael Garibaldi's face was completely emotionless. He walked over to the desk, stood with hands clasped behind his back. At attention, yes. But no remorse on his face. No contrition. Only the line of his strong jaw, stubborn as ever.

 "Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan didn't bother trying to soften his tone. And rather enjoyed the clear tension in the burly security chief's frame. "I have some things to say to you, and I want you to pay close attention. I won't be repeating myself."

 Garibaldi's eyes flickered from where they'd been fixed, staring about a foot above Sheridan's head. Now the cool blue gaze struck him, and he was surprised at the complete and continuing lack of concern there. "Understood, sir." His voice was as expressionless as his face. Only the ticking of the muscle in his set jaw revealed his tension.

 "I know we didn't get off to the best start, when I arrived." Sheridan produced a smile, but didn't let it touch his eyes. "I know you and Sinclair were close. And it was a shock for you to find that he was gone, and I was here, in his place."

 No response: Garibaldi didn't even twitch. "I also understand," Sheridan continued, after a brief pause, "that the betrayal by your second was another great shock. I know that it's hard to trust anyone after such a thing.

 "But it has come to my attention that your off-duty actions are, shall we say, less than flattering where I'm concerned."

 "Sir?" No doubt he knew exactly what Sheridan meant; his eyes were flat with dislike. Well enough. That made this a bit easier.

 "You've been a problem since I came aboard this station, Mr. Garibaldi. Oh, not your professional duties," he inserted smoothly. "On that front I have no complaints. But there is another kind of problem."

 "What kind of problem, sir?"

He had to admire the guy's guts. Not even a flinch. Either Garibaldi was the most collected person he'd ever seen -- which, based on his record, Sheridan highly doubted. Or he simply didn't care. Which was a lot more likely. And a lot harder to deal with.

 "You don't like me. I can handle that. I don't care if you like me or hate me." Sheridan allowed a brief smile to cross his features. "But Mr. Garibaldi, if I get wind of you bitching about me in public again, you'll soon be looking for yet another posting. And I've seen your record. You won't find another post like the one you have now. Sinclair gave you a chance, because he knew you and trusted you. I don't."

 He drew a deep breath, staring at Garibaldi's expressionless, stoic face. "If you feel you can't conduct your duties professionally, and still keep your personal feelings to yourself, then I'd say your future on this station is in jeopardy, Mr. Garibaldi. I can't put it more plainly than that. Like me or hate me, that's your choice. But do your job, and if you have problems, come to me and talk to me about them. Is that understood?"

 He watched the thin lips purse slightly before Garibaldi replied. "Of course, sir. Anything else?"

 Insolence. Sheridan felt his heart speed up suddenly. Oh, Mr. Garibaldi, a familiar, harsh voice in his mind whispered. You don't know what you're doing. You don't realize what you need. And you sure as hell don't know who you're messing with. I know what you need. And I think you're asking for it. Aren't you?

 He schooled his face to calmness, not revealing the path his mind was taking. I don't think this little problem is settled, quite yet. And I have a very good idea how to settle it. A very, very good idea.

 Part of him was alarmed. It had been years since he'd had an opportunity to let go. To deal with problems in the manner he enjoyed. It wasn't politic, and it certainly wasn't gentlemanly. But it was oddly military, in a way. Corporal punishment was brutal, but effective.

 He cleared his throat roughly. "Very well then, Mr. Garibaldi." Smooth, cold voice. How lovely to hear that particular tone again. He smiled thinly. "I will expect a full report by 1900 hours this evening on your activities. A personal report. And if you have any complaints, you may feel free to voice them at that time."

 Something like a sneer on Garibaldi's bluff, handsome face. Sheridan felt like grinning. Lovely. "Anything you say, sir," came the security chief's casual reply. No suspicion. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

 "Very well. Dismissed."

 He watched Garibaldi walk away. Easy, loose strides. Physically confident.

I have a sneaking idea that you've never been really bested, Mr. Garibaldi. He felt his tongue slip out to wet his dry lips. But you haven't spent an evening with me yet. And tonight you're going to learn your first lesson. A lesson I don't think you'll easily - or quickly - forget.

 His hands flexed again, mindlessly. As he turned to his console his mind was already filled with plans.

 

* * *

The day passed surprisingly smoothly. Very few crises, and those were not so terrible that he didn't have time to think about his evening plans. Oddly, he felt amazingly calm. Excited, yes, but in a beautifully controlled way. He longed for the release, but knowing he would very soon have it meant he could relax for now.

 The only person who seemed to notice anything was Ivanova. Of course. It took her most of the day before she brought it up, but when she did, Sheridan realized he might have to play this thing a bit closer to the vest. At least around his very intuitive second.

 "You're looking chipper today, sir." Ivanova grinned at him, head tilted a fraction to one side.

Sheridan smiled back, easily. "Feeling good, Susan." He shrugged loosely. "Been a good day."

 She nodded slowly. Not suspicious, but just a bit calculating. Well and good. Let her calculate. It was quite unlikely she would figure this out. Quite unlikely. "There's a party of Erandian diplomats arriving at 1800 hours tonight," Ivanova continued after a moment. "Would you like to take care of meeting them? Seeing them get squared away?"

 He shook his head curtly. "Why don't you handle this one, Susan?" He gave her a genuine smile. "Be a good opportunity to continue that training we were talking about."

 Her lip curled, he was certain unconsciously. He wanted to laugh. "Indeed, sir," came her reluctant reply. "I'll notify you if anything comes up."

 "Of course. But Susan?" She looked up, and his smile broadened. "I have some plans for tonight. If there's an emergency, don't hesitate to let me know. But if it's something you can handle... Well, I'd prefer not to be disturbed."

 She nodded again, crisply. "Understood, sir." Her mouth twitched as if she wanted to smile and wouldn't -- quite -- allow herself. "I'll have a full report for you in the morning."

 "Thank you, Susan."

 He wanted to rub his hands together. Perfect.

 

* * *

So far so good.

 Even in this, a personal report, Garibaldi pushed the limits. Late. Not so late that an excuse didn't work. He was busy, etc., etc. Normally Sheridan would have bought it. And from anyone else. From Garibaldi? Not bloody likely.

 He spent the final few minutes before Garibaldi's arrival simply sitting calmly and waiting. When the door chimed, he was quite ready.

 "Sir." The security chief looked just a bit tired. But still collected, still that stubborn, strong-jawed obstinance. "I have my report for you. As requested."

 Sheridan didn't smile. "Come inside," he said tonelessly.

 He wasn't sure if Garibaldi would pick up on the atmosphere in the room, but he had somewhat underestimated him. The burly chief's nostrils flared slightly; his look was vaguely, uselessly suspicious. It didn't matter. There was highly unlikely that he could know what Sheridan had planned. Security or not. No one knew about this. Sheridan had long ago learned the art of secrecy.

 He didn't offer him a drink. Simply sat across from him, at ease in his chair, while Garibaldi began his report. Terse, clearly tense, and just as clearly not sure why he was tense. Other than the obvious. His dislike was palpable. And perfectly acceptable.

 Finally it seemed that Garibaldi was done. Sitting on the edge of his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

 "Is that it?" Sheridan didn't move a muscle; simply fixed Garibaldi with the same cool, clinical regard. "Have you finished?"

 "Yes, sir. That's it." Garibaldi lifted his eyebrows. "Permission to go now, sir?"

 "Denied." He enjoyed the way the chief's eyes narrowed just a bit. "You may be finished, Mr. Garibaldi. But I'm not."

 He wanted to let some of the tension out. Tapping his foot, something. "I want to tell you something about my philosophy, Mr. Garibaldi," Sheridan continued, glad to hear the eternal control in his voice. Good. Very good. "I think it may help us to understand one another better."

 "With all due respect, sir." Garibaldi's own control slipped enough to let the hint of a sneer creep into his voice. "I've already heard the Lincoln speech. If you --"

 "Oh, this is a different speech, Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan let the wolfish grin finally appear on his face. Predatory. It felt completely natural. Wonderful. As did the slight falter in Garibaldi's own contemptuous facade. "I haven't had the opportunity to give this particular speech in quite some time. And I've only given it a few times before now. To very -- specific people. People who were problems. Like you."

 He sat up straighter on his chair, hands laced easily on his lap. "You see, Mr. Garibaldi, every once in a while in my career as a command officer, I've come across people who I simply couldn't get through to. People who, for whatever reason, just didn't get the message. So I came up with an alternative approach. And I'm happy to say it has always done the trick. When nothing else would."

 He was fighting against it, but Garibaldi couldn't keep the tension completely off his features. Wondering what was going on. But he would know soon enough, wouldn't he? "What kind of approach is this, sir?" An almost inaudible thread of anxiety, under the steady voice.

 "I want to talk to you about discipline, Mr. Garibaldi. Something I think has been lacking in your general approach, your entire career." His grin disappeared. But he kept his intent gaze focused on Garibaldi. Waiting for him to flinch. Disappointed, for now. "Do you know why discipline is needed in support staff?"

 "Of course," came the stiff reply. "Without discipline you don't know if your staff will obey."

 "Exactly. And that's how I feel about you, Mr. Garibaldi. So I'm going to change that. Tonight."

 The man's face was now distinctly pale. But not with fear. With growing anger. "I follow your orders, sir," he spat curtly. "What more do you want?"

 Sheridan laughed out loud, in delight. "Oh, much more, my friend," he managed, grinning. "Much, much more."

 Garibaldi stood suddenly, tension evident in his entire body. "To be honest, sir, I don't like the sound of this. If you have problems with my official duties, that's one thing. But you're not going to --"

 "Going to what?" Sheridan mirrored his stance exactly, standing up, but not breaking the now-lethal stare at all. "You think you stop being my security chief when you're off duty? Hardly. This is a 24/7 job. If you can't think of it that way, then you need an attitude adjustment. Badly."

 Garibaldi's mouth worked. But the thin lips clamped together.

 "What is it?" Sheridan whispered, letting himself grin once more. "Say it, Mr. Garibaldi. Believe me, I can take it. Anything you have to say."

 Garibaldi suddenly smiled. A strange sort of twisted smile, one heavy with satisfaction. "And if you don't like what I have to say, sir? What will you do then?" He laughed once, a hard, strangely shaky sound. "Gonna get out your whips and chains and make me take it back?"

 Sheridan blinked. "What?" he whispered, too startled to guard his words. "What did you say?"

 The security chief's face was flushed, his smile almost impossible to read. Jeering, oddly triumphant. But the light dancing in his electric blue eyes was something else. Almost an invitation. "So Starkiller Sheridan has a skeleton in his closet," Garibaldi continued, in a faintly trembling voice. "Did you think I wouldn't have a look around, Captain? Do a little snooping? It's in the job description, you know. Dedication, isn't that what you were preaching to me just now?"

 You son of a bitch. It didn't help his suddenly jangled nerves that he was hoist by his own petard. Anger flared, flickered as he considered his options. It didn't really matter that Garibaldi knew. The information itself was essentially meaningless. So he'd uncovered something Sheridan would prefer to be kept entirely private. So? Nothing illegal about it.

 Move in. He thinks he has you on the defensive. You'd better make him understand he doesn't. Quick.

 The smile that crossed his face felt wonderfully easy. "Your devotion to your job is to be commended, of course," Sheridan stated evenly. "As for bringing out the whips and chains -" He paused for a deliberate moment. "Only if you want me to," he finished, grinning.

 Garibaldi's face was now very pale. A muscle in his set jaw jumped spasmodically. "With all due respect, sir," he repeated, in a grating voice that did nothing to hide his now-boiling dislike. "I don't think this you could handle me."

 Oh my. A challenge. Sheridan's pulse suddenly sped up. The grin on his face solidified, became something eager. "But you're wrong, Mr. Garibaldi," he whispered. "So wrong."

 They simply stood there for a moment. Breathing hard, poised for something, neither was sure what.

"You know what your problem is, Garibaldi?" Sheridan hissed between clenched teeth.

 The security chief grinned humorlessly. "Yeah. You."

"No. You're wrong. You don't have a problem with me. You have a problem with authority." Sheridan felt hands flex, mindlessly. Aching to do something. Something violent. "You've always had a problem with it, haven't you? Except for Sinclair," he added, eyes narrowing. "You'd have gone to hell and back for him, wouldn't you? His was the only authority you ever could handle. Why was that, I wonder?"

 Garibaldi's lips twisted with anger, but it wasn't the same kind of anger as before. Hurt. A more personal rage. "Because he was ten times the commander you are," he hissed, and Sheridan was startled to hear the break in his voice. "Fifty times. That's why."

 "Loyalty. Well, I'm glad to hear you say that. But why so loyal, Mr. Garibaldi?" Sheridan grinned sunnily. "Was it his style? His record? His command presence? The way he handled himself under pressure? Or was it something else?" His grin widened. "What was it, Garibaldi? Was it just that there was something special about Sinclair? Something that didn't make it to the station logs? Something a little more personal than that?"

 He was ready for it. Bouncing lightly on his feet, poised for whatever might happen. So Garibaldi's furious lunge didn't dismay him. They were fairly evenly matched in the physical department, but Sheridan had the advantage. Not blinded by rage, striking out mindlessly. He stepped aside, taking only the edge of what should have been a full-body blow. Caught Garibaldi's arm and whipped him around, using the man's own momentum to add strength. A twist, and he had Garibaldi kneeling on the floor, in a headlock.

 "You know what you need, Mr. Garibaldi?" Sheridan rasped, distantly relishing the feel of Garibaldi's trembling, tense body. "You need to learn discipline. Respect. Looks like no one ever taught you those things. Did they?" He gave an unnecessary but completely satisfying tug to the head he held so tightly.

"With all - due respect," he heard Garibaldi whisper, in a strangled, furious voice, "you're - the last person I'll - ever learn from." A hacking cough.

 "Well, there you're wrong, my friend. So wrong."

 He hauled Garibaldi to his feet by main force, keeping the terrible armlock around his throat with one arm, and grabbing Garibaldi's wrist and yanking his arm behind him. Hard enough he heard tendons pop. Propelled him forward, until he collided with the desk, hips making a bruising thud against solid wood. And pushed still, until Garibaldi was forced down, face against the desk's surface.

 "What - the fuck're you doing?" Garibaldi's voice was just a wheeze now, startled and seething with rage. Trying to struggle, but there was no purchase, no way to get his balance right now. Exactly as planned.

 Sheridan reached forward with his free hand, keeping Garibaldi's arm brutally twisted behind him. The little box there, handy on the desk. He pressed the button to open it, took out the contents. "Something someone should have done a long, long time ago," he answered, wanting to laugh.

 The cuffs went on fast. The ease of practice, so smoothly that Garibaldi didn't realize what he was doing until his arms were fastened tightly behind his back. "You - bastard," he gritted, struggling once and then lapsing back on his belly. "Get those off me."

 "Not a chance. Not a fucking chance."

 He had a little trouble with the ankles. When Garibaldi felt Sheridan's hands grab one leg he kicked out. A street fighter's move, snakelike lashing out with his foot, astonishingly accurate, considering Garibaldi didn't have eyes in the back of his head. Sheridan grunted as the heel of Garibaldi's boot connected with his shin. He reacted without thinking, a brief flash of anger, administering a sharp blow to the back of the offending leg. Garibaldi sagged immediately, of course. That leg would be useless until the shock to the hamstring muscle subsided, and how was he going to kick again with the other leg? Sheridan chuckled grimly as he wrapped a leather cuff around Garibaldi's ankle, the leg that dangled uselessly for the moment. Yanking to move his legs apart, calculated off-balance stance. A length of strong cord was attached to the cuff, and fastened around one leg of the desk quickly. Enough play in the cord to allow it. The other leg was laughably easy. When he was done Garibaldi's legs were hopelessly caught.

 Even with his wrists and ankles bound, Garibaldi was a strong man. Sheridan leaned on him, letting one elbow press painfully into Garibaldi's back.

"Let - me - go!" Garibaldi wheezed, face pressed against the desk.

 "Not until I've taught you a little lesson." Sheridan grinned lethally. "Discipline, Mr. Garibaldi. Time to find out what that means."

 It took a bit of maneuvering to get the man's pants down past his hips. Not quite as far as Sheridan would have liked, but sufficient to the task at hand. Garibaldi bucked against him, a steady stream of cursing in a voice that was increasingly agitated. Sheridan wanted to laugh. He settled for sliding his hand easily over Garibaldi's exposed ass.

 "They used to flog crew members for insubordination," Sheridan murmured, noting the way Garibaldi's voice had stopped completely. The way the body beneath Sheridan had frozen, shocked at where Sheridan's hand was roving. "But you haven't been insubordinate. You've just been a fucking pain in the ass. What you need, Mr. Garibaldi, is a spanking. An eye for an eye."

 Garibaldi's answering shiver made Sheridan's eyes widen a bit. Not protesting any longer, was he? Lying still, knowing there was nothing he could do for the moment. Recognizing his helplessness for the first time. Liking it? It certainly appeared that way.

 Sheridan stood up, backing away a little. "So that you can know what it feels like," he grated harshly, his grin even wider now. "Right, Garibaldi?"

 He saw him flinch. Were his eyes open? He wasn't sure.

 He selected his tool very carefully. There were several options, but he knew which one was perfect. He reached out to grasp it, and chuckled without humor. The narrow nuplastic strap was a cruel choice. Not as cruel as some, to be sure. But this was no measly riding crop. No, this would leave lovely marks. Not so badly as the cane, or the even more interesting items in the box in his closet. But sitting would be a quite interesting sensation for a few days. He sincerely doubted Garibaldi would forget this any time soon.

 He let the cold plastic slide over Garibaldi's ass once, slowly, registering what it was. Saw Garibaldi start to tremble. Still voiceless. What he could see of his face was mesmerized. Fear, and something Sheridan hadn't at all expected. Something like excitement.

 He trailed the strap down between Garibaldi's trembling buttocks. Beautiful, muscular ass. What a surprise, beneath that dull uniform. He distantly wished for a "before" picture. Before and after.

 The first blow rang like a clap of thunder in the still room. A pure, satisfying smack of hard plastic against yielding flesh. And the music of Garibaldi's startled gasp, the jerk of his body at the recognition of pain.

 A weal appeared almost instantly. Lovely, bright red. Sheridan wanted to crow. It had been a long time since he'd had the pleasure of administering this kind of discipline.

His arm hadn't forgotten the talent. Settling into a rhythm all its own, easy, effortless, gorgeous. The sweetly rounded ass in front of him reddened swiftly, each stroke of the strap leaving a perfect mark of its passing. Crisscrossing. X marks the spot, Sheridan thought remotely. And grinned.

 He had to commend Garibaldi. For quite some time, no sound at all. Only the hiss of indrawn breath, the explosion as he let the air out.

 "You don't understand, Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan slowed the progress of the strap for a moment. Pushed hard against him, until the other man lay pinned against the desk surface. Leaned over the twitching back to whisper in Garibaldi's ear. "I won't stop until you break. Until you tell me that I've gotten through to you. You take as much as you can take, and I'm not stopping until I've broken through this wall you put up between you and the world. If I have to flay this tight ass to shreds to make it happen."

 He could see Garibaldi's throat working. Watched him gasp for enough breath to speak. The words were quiet but heartfelt. "Go - fuck yourself."

 The next crack of the strap squeezed Garibaldi's eyes closed, but still no sound.

 He had more endurance than Sheridan would have expected. Sometimes men who seemed the strongest on the outside responded the quickest to this kind of humiliation. Broke fast and hard. Garibaldi wasn't one of them. His stubbornness manifested even here, under the whip. It had to be hurting. It had to be hurting badly. But still no sound, no cry for mercy.

 And then something. The most reluctant cry -- a particularly well-placed blow on fire-engine red flesh, and Garibaldi made a guttural sound, halfway between a groan and a shriek.

"Good," Sheridan hissed. And struck him again, the same place. Garibaldi cried out in earnest this time, a shivering voice that made Sheridan's heart pound even faster. A sound that made his half-erect cock seem to wake up, stiffening suddenly.

 It took five more blows before he heard Garibaldi scream. And then he knew - reluctantly - that it was enough. His heart was thudding so hard his vision was turning red around the edges. And lower down -- his cock was an aching, eager misery. He didn't want to stop. Wanted to keep flailing away at Michael Garibaldi's tormented ass, until he begged for mercy, until he wept in agony. Couldn't let that happen.

 This is discipline. Not torture.

 He could see Garibaldi visibly bracing himself for the next blow. Breath coming in audible, grunting little gasps. Eyes squinted tight shut against the promise of pain.

 Sheridan flung the plastic strap on the floor. For one moment he allowed himself the indulgence of surveying the fruits of his labor. Garibaldi's white shirt, soaked with sweat. Below it, the blood-red landscape of his ass. Some of the marks were black -- the ones that had finally broken through Garibaldi's stubborn, endless silence. Most of the marks would go away fairly quickly. These others would stay longer, and hurt more.

He touched the bonds holding Garibaldi's ankles, and heard the man gasp with something like fear. He watched carefully for another kick: was Garibaldi capable of doing that trick again? But apparently not. Sheridan didn't allow himself to speak. Only released the restraints, straightened. Used a code to unlock the cuffs around Garibaldi's wrists.

 And then he retreated. Sat down in a chair, willed his pounding heart to slow down, let his breathing calm. His mindlessly, furiously erect cock to subside.

 It took a moment for Garibaldi to register his own restored freedom. Straightening slowly, trembling so mightily Sheridan thought for a moment he might not be able to walk. Steadying but visibly flinching at the pain.

 He let Garibaldi dress in silence. Turning his eyes away, giving him privacy. Suddenly Sheridan was ashamed. This was -- tawdry. Over the top. It hadn't been necessary, had it? He could have handled Garibaldi's rebelliousness in some other way. Some more -- polite, commander-like way. Couldn't he?

 Sheridan glanced around, and saw the security chief standing near him. Fully dressed, the only visible sign of what had just happened the deep, lingering flushed face. And something in his eyes. Sheridan stared, surprised out of his regretful thoughts. This wasn't what he'd expected. This look of -- thankfulness. Hidden, even now it was disappearing entirely. But not so soon Sheridan hadn't seen it. A look of relief. And something like the embers of excitement, banked now but promising amazing heat.

 "Do we understand each other, Mr. Garibaldi?" Sheridan heard the way his own voice shook the smallest bit, and frowned angrily.

 "Yes, sir." The flippancy was gone from Garibaldi's tone: he sounded serious. The blue eyes were hard to read, now, but there was no trace of the hard, icy light that had been there a few hours ago. He seemed ready to say something. Sheridan wasn't ever sure what that might have been. Garibaldi took a deep breath, and then turned to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**    
 _Lo giorno se n'andava, e l'aere bruno_    
 _toglieva li animai che sono in terra_    
 _da le fatiche loro; e io sol uno_

 _m'apparecchiava a sostener la guerra_    
 _sì del cammino e sì de la pietate,_    
 _che ritrarrà la mente che non erra._

 _... E qual è quei che disvuol ciò che volle_    
 _e per novi pensier cangia proposta,_    
 _sì che dal cominciar tutto si tolle,_

 _tal mi fec'io 'n quella oscura costa,_    
 _perché, pensando, consumai la 'mpresa_    
 _che fu nel cominciar cotanto tosta._

Day was departing, and the embrowned air   
Released the animals that are on earth   
From their fatigues; and I the only one

 Made myself ready to sustain the war,   
Both of the way and likewise of the woe,   
Which memory that errs not shall retrace.

 ... And as he is, who unwills what he willed,   
And by new thoughts doth his intention change,   
So that from his design he quite withdraws,

 Such I became, upon that dark hillside,   
Because, in thinking, I consumed the emprise,   
Which was so very prompt in the beginning.   
    
 

 

* * *

He couldn't stop the urge to whistle, as he walked down the corridor to the lift. It really was a great morning. He couldn't recall when he'd last felt this relaxed and energetic. Muscles loose, back straight. Legs that felt spring-loaded.

All I know is, this beats hell out of batting practice.

 Sheridan smiled privately, and felt the answering stir between his legs.

 He didn't see Garibaldi most of the morning, and when he finally did run into him, it was only for a brief moment, near the Zocalo. But enough. More than enough.

 You're walking carefully today, Mr. Garibaldi, the delighted voice in his mind whispered. I like the look of it.

 The chief of security stood next to a table, talking with Zack Allen and someone Sheridan felt he ought to remember, but couldn't, quite. A new member of Garibaldi's team. Sheridan allowed himself the indulgence of staring at Garibaldi, for only a moment. Saw the rather stiff way he held himself. The neat uniform fabric, that covered the results of last night's experience. Sheridan knew what lay hidden beneath well-fitting trousers. His mouth curved in another smile.

 He shook his head lightly, and walked over to the table. "Morning, Mr. Garibaldi," he said jovially, letting his smile evolve into a grin. "Zack."

 He saw Garibaldi's shoulders tense. And then the security chief turned to look at him.

 Oho. This is interesting.

 Definitely not the same stubborn, cold dislike as yesterday. Something had changed. But there had been no miraculous conversion, either. Garibaldi's face was pale as death, and although his greeting was cordial, his eyes seethed with a stew of clear emotion. Anger, most of all. But there was embarrassment, and pain, and hurt there, as well. Mixed together, turning clear blue to thunderous indigo. No desire, no excitement. Something had changed.

 He had to take care of this. Sheridan felt the first stirrings of uneasiness. "Mr. Garibaldi, could I speak with you for a moment?" He kept his tone light, his smile friendly. Just a chat between friends, old boy. I wouldn't bring this up in front of your men."

 For a moment he thought Garibaldi was going to tell him to shove it. But the security chief paused, and nodded curtly, turning to make his excuses to Zack and whoever that other person was. Then he turned, and Sheridan walked away, conscious of Garibaldi's heavy steps behind him.

 There was an alcove, fairly secluded, only a few shops down the corridor. Sheridan aimed for that. Better than having this discussion here, in front of God and everyone. He didn't look at Garibaldi until they were standing in relative privacy. And then it was time to face the music.

 "How are you feeling today?" It sounded flip, but he meant it sincerely. He had no idea if Garibaldi would take it that way.

 "How am I feeling?" Garibaldi laughed once, harshly. "That's rich, Captain. How the hell do you think I feel?"

 Sheridan drew a deep, cautious breath. "I apologize for some of the things I said yesterday," he began quietly. "I was out of line."

 Garibaldi's gaze was scathing. "And what you did?" he asked bluntly.

 "What I did?" Sheridan paused for a moment. "That," he answered slowly, "I don't apologize for. You deserved it."

 "You really think so." There it was again: the jutted jaw, the mulish stubbornness. "Spanking me like a kid?"

 That was like a kid? You must have had an interesting childhood. Out loud Sheridan continued, "It seemed appropriate. Act childish, Mr. Garibaldi, and I'll treat you like a child. Treat me with respect, and I will do the same for you. I don't know how to make it any clearer than that."

 Garibaldi nodded tightly. "And that's the best you can do?" he snorted. Long arms crossed protectively over his chest: unconscious posture, certainly. "Fine." He turned away.

 Without even considering it Sheridan's hand snaked out to grab Garibaldi's arm, fingers digging in deeply. Pushing him up against the wall, distantly relishing the way Garibaldi's eyes went wide with surprise. "The best I can do?" he repeated icily. Smiling. "Hardly."

 But Garibaldi was smiling, too. Eyes almost blank, as if he wasn't entirely aware of what he was saying. "Off the record, sir?"

"Off the record."

 "Try it again and you'll regret it. I promise you."

 Something was singing in his ears: something joyous, dementedly excited. "You think so?" Sheridan whispered easily. Gazing intently in Garibaldi's eyes, a stare that saw through the macho bravado. Deep. Deep, where Garibaldi didn't want him to go.

 "I think you want me to try it again," Sheridan crooned, almost laughing, with pure raging delight. "I think you want me to succeed. Don't you? Don't you, Michael?"

 Garibaldi's mouth was an invisible line of fury, but he blinked, and betrayed himself. "Want it? I don't think so." But what was meant to be a sneer transformed into a gasp, as Sheridan's hand pressed against the front of his tunic, finding his nipple and pinching it viciously. A gasp that wasn't dislike. A gasp of excitement.

 Sheridan dropped his hold on Garibaldi, taking three deliberate steps away. "We'll see," he stated coolly, still smiling. "I'll wait for your report tonight, Mr. Garibaldi. 2100 hours. Don't be late."

 He didn't wait for a reply. He already knew what that reply would be.

 

* * *

He wasn't sure how to get through the day. He ached all over. Every move reminded him of what happened, of what had been done to him. Sitting, standing, walking. It didn't matter. It was a constant, infuriating, hopelessly exciting reminder.

 Garibaldi slammed his fist on his desk, relishing the sharp new pain in his hand. Pain to match all the others. Pain was an odd thing. Irritating, exhausting. Refreshing. It cleared the mind. Brought everything into sharper focus.

 Right now, his focus was very sharp indeed.

 Bastard. Son-of-a-bitch. He's going to regret it. I'll make him pay for that. If it means I have to work the rest of my life as a mining drone on Io.

 "Chief?"

Garibaldi looked up, a snarl of frustration still curling his lip. "What?" he snapped.

 Zack Allen's eyes widened, and he put both hands up, a semi-comic gesture whose lightness was belied by the wariness in his look. "Don't shoot, Chief, I's only a flunky."

 "Sorry." Garibaldi forced a smile. "What can I do for you, Zack?"

 Allen shrugged, visibly relaxing a little. "You wanted to know when that freighter left. The Jove? Departed last night. I think our little problem is over."

 Garibaldi nodded slowly. "Good," he murmured. Struggling to remember exactly *why* this was good. Forcing his brain to concentrate on something else besides rage, and revenge.

"I tell you what would have made this whole situation a hell of a lot easier." Allen's voice had dropped conspiratorially. "We know that freighter was transporting illegal substances. But what you said yesterday was so right. I don't think I saw it, myself, until you mentioned it. It would sure help if Command would pay attention to your bulletins. A search order would have found a hell of a lot. Instead we have to wait until Mars gets 'em, and that's only because you knew what to look for."

 "Yeah." As suddenly as that, his attention was restored. "Doesn't seem as if Starkiller Sheridan pays much attention to minutiae, does it?" Garibaldi's smile was very pleased. "Thanks for the update, Zack. Good work."

 Allen grinned. "No problem. Knew you'd want to know about it."

 After Allen left, Garibaldi sat very still for a long moment. Then, with a smile, he called up the computer. "Patch me through to Mars Colony security," he stated crisply.

 Unlike a few months ago, it was only a few minutes until he saw Fred Brewer's face on the viewscreen. "Mike," Brewer said happily, and grinned. "What the hell are you doing calling me?"

 "Hey, Fred." Garibaldi chuckled. "Making trouble, don't you know?"

 "When I hear a call's from you, I automatically call a level 3 alert." Brewer laughed out loud. "News from you is never good. Life treating you all right out there in the beyond?"

 The beyond. He'd forgotten what they used to call any area past the Mars perimeter. "Well," he replied vaguely, "we win a few, we lose a few. It's not so different." His smile faded. "Got a tip for you, Fred. Freighter coming your way, may already be there. The Jove."

 As quickly as that, Brewer was all business. More than one tip from Garibaldi had paid off; he knew better than to quibble. His eyes flicked offscreen for a moment, then back. "Docked about an hour ago. What's the deal?"

 "Suspicion of carrying illegal substances. Narcotics, we think. They did a booming business here on B5 before we made things too warm and they split last night."

 Brewer looked bemused. "So why didn't you nail 'em yourself? Sounds like you had enough evidence."

 Garibaldi kept himself from smiling, but with significant difficulty. "Well, things don't work here the way they do on Mars," he said slowly. "You know, we've had a change of command here not that long ago, and..." His voice trailed off. "We had the evidence, but I guess it wasn't quite good enough. Thought I'd pass along what we have, and let you take it from there."

 Brewer wasn't a stupid man. Not by a long shot. Now he looked sympathetic. "Heard about Sinclair leaving. How's the new guy working out? Rough, I take it?"

 "It's an adjustment." Garibaldi made himself look nonchalant. Knew Brewer would read more into it. Planned on it. "In any case, I'm shooting the info to you now. I think you'll find everything you need."

 A curt nod. "Appreciate it, Mike. Mars has enough troubles without adding to them with a drug ship doing business under our noses. We'll take care of it."

 Garibaldi smiled. "Good to talk to you, Fred. Keep your nose clean."

 "You, too. I'll let you know what happens."

 "Do that."

 He cut the connection, and leaned back in his chair. For once, the pain in his abused ass didn't bother him. Salutary.

Piece of cake. Didn't have to say anything at all specific. Brewer will take care of it. Before nightfall on Mars, the whole security staff will know about Sheridan's fumble. He let himself smile, felt the hard-edged grin spread over his face like cold molasses.

 Don't fuck with me, Sheridan. You'll regret it.

 

* * *

The day had a charmed feel to it. As if he had done something right, and this was his reward.

He was wrong, of course. But it was nice while it lasted.

 Sheridan hastened his stride. The day promised to stay pretty decent. On his way to drinks with Ivanova and Franklin. Some time later to catch up on some backlogged work, before Garibaldi's scheduled report. He smiled to himself. That would be interesting. He was quite looking forward to it.

 He arrived at Earhart's, and looked around. Heard a familiar voice.

 "Captain." Franklin waved at him, grinning. "Over here."

 Sheridan smiled, walking over to take the proffered seat. "Stephen, Susan." He sighed, settling into his chair. "Thanks for inviting me."

 Ivanova shrugged, stirring her drink. Something strong, by the look of it. "I think this is a record," she observed wryly. "A whole day without some kind of crisis."

 "Don't say that," Franklin said quickly, with a superstitious glance over his shoulder. "The minute you admit things are good, they'll go bad."

 "That's pretty medieval of you, Stephen." Sheridan grinned. "You really believe in luck?"

 "Don't you? You pilot types are the most superstitious lot I know."

 Sheridan shrugged, glancing at the bar. A waitperson looked up, and he waved casually. "Superstition is inherently limiting," he observed, looking back at Franklin and Ivanova. "I think I'm closer to believing in karma. What goes around, comes around. That way I don't have to worry when I break mirrors."

 "Sorry, my karma ran over my dogma." Ivanova laughed, and took a drink before they could see her blushing.

 Franklin grinned, and then his brow wrinkled in a faint frown. "Anyone seen Michael today?" he asked, looking at his companions in turn. "I invited him, too. Wonder where he is?"

 Sheridan was searching for a suitably nonchalant reply, when Ivanova spoke up. "Garibaldi's been in a bitch of a mood today." She shuddered briefly. "I'm not sure I'd want him here. Like wishing for a thundercloud."

 "What's the problem?" Sheridan asked evenly. Smoothly.

Now his second looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I -- I'm not sure," she replied, glancing at him before returning to study her drink intently. "I really don't know anything. Just -- heard a few things."

 Sheridan felt his heart take a startled leap. A few things? "What kind of things?" he pressed intently.

 "Susan..." Franklin gave Ivanova a quick, angry look.

 "He has a right to know." Her voice sounded suddenly defensive.

 "Know what?" Sheridan's smile was gone. Completely.

 "Captain." From her flat, suddenly professional tone, Sheridan knew this was much more serious. "You have to have a talk with Garibaldi." Blushing, clearly uncomfortable. And just as obviously sincere. "Some of the things he's been saying -" She broke off. "It's going to start causing problems," she finished quietly.

 "I see." His heart had settled into a rapid, hard thump. He felt his good mood slipping irretrievably away.

 What the fuck are you doing, Mr. Garibaldi? Didn't I make myself clear the first time?

 "John." The use of his first name got his attention, and Sheridan glanced at Franklin. "Michael's got some -- problems." The doctor tried for a smile, failed utterly. "So you pissed him off yesterday. Give him some time. He'll get over it."

 "Yesterday?" Sheridan felt his face going red. "What about yesterday?"

 His officers exchanged a tense look. "There was a situation," Ivanova began after a moment. "The Jove. I think Garibaldi took your response to his security alert pretty badly."

 "The Jove didn't break any rules. Garibaldi didn't have enough proof for me to issue a search edict. He knew it, and so did I. My hands were tied."

 "I heard this afternoon that Mars security confiscated the ship about two hours after its arrival."

 Sheridan forced a slow nod. "Well, then, it all worked out."

 Ivanova looked uneasy. "I guess." Another odd exchange of glances with Franklin.

 "Susan, spit it out." Sheridan sighed angrily. "All this hinting around is really starting to piss me off. What's the problem?"

 She twirled her drink in her hand slowly, her expression suddenly miserable. "Mars Colony made a statement after the arrests. And it was pretty clear that they thought you'd dropped the ball on this one. Said they were working on a tip from B5, after the ship had been allowed to leave."

 It was suddenly quite clear. Crystal. "A tip from Garibaldi." He didn't bother to keep the icy cold out of his voice.

 "Captain," Franklin said urgently, leaning forward in his chair. "Michael isn't a bad guy. A damn good one, if you want to know the truth. If there's something between the two of you, you've got to work it out. This isn't like him. Planting rumors. Playing sides. He's usually pretty fair-minded. Did -- did something happen?"

 Sheridan stared at the doctor for a moment. Trying to ignore the outright dissolution of command structure inherent in Franklin's words. Concentrating on the meaning behind them. Finally he sighed, gustily. "Mr. Garibaldi -- doesn't much like me. Or my style." He produced a smile from someplace. Bitter. "I've been aware of this problem for some time now."

 "Talk to him," Ivanova surprised him by saying. "He's not that hard to get through to. Once you figure out where he's coming from."

 Oh, I think I know where he's coming from, all right. A place where I put him.

 He nodded crisply. "I'll take care of it," he stated coolly. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Susan."

 She frowned slightly. "No problem," came the careful, uneasy reply.

 

* * *

Something told him not to be late tonight. He ignored it.

I have other things on my agenda, too, Captain. Don't forget that.

 Garibaldi slipped the last chip out of his computer and tossed it into the waiting pile. Daily reports, surveillance results, bits of information that might come in handy one day. He saved everything. Anal retentive to the last. It didn't come naturally; he'd learned it the hard way. C.Y.A., Michael. Cover your own ass. With the climate around here as toasty as it's been getting, you should mind your p's and q's.

 He glanced at the clock on his console. 2109. Time to gather something up and think about what he was going to say to Sheridan. How about "Talked to Fred Brewer over on Mars Colony this afternoon. Turns out that ship was carrying a lot more than a few illegal narcotics. Weapons, too. Nice catch. Too bad we didn't make it."

 Garibaldi grinned. Tempting. But he didn't think he'd mention Mars at all. He'd just let that one play out however it would.

 It took another fifteen minutes to put together enough daily reports to satisfy Sheridan. He was humming faintly to himself as he gathered his things and doused the lights in his office. He was in an opera mood tonight, for some reason. Maybe Tosca. "Il bacio di Tosca..." The most gorgeous knife-thrust he could ever recall seeing.

 And this, I guess, is the kiss of Garibaldi, Captain Sheridan. Only I use information as a weapon. Much harder to trace. No fingerprints. No DNA.

 His heart took a gigantic leap in his chest. Adrenaline. Felt great.

 And funny thing. His ass didn't seem to hurt at all any more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**    
It was exactly 2130 hours when Garibaldi arrived at Sheridan's door. Hit the door chime with precision.

 One look at Sheridan's frozen face told him nothing had escaped the captain's notice. Nothing at all.

 Garibaldi forced a smile, and hoped it looked easy. "Sorry I'm late, sir," he said with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "Things got a little hairy this evening. Got here as fast as I could."

 Nothing. A curt nod, but no words. No yelling, no threats. Only this icy, composed silence, and the tiny smile that flickered at the corners of Sheridan's tense mouth. The captain stood aside to let him enter. And for a brief moment Garibaldi hesitated. Memories of last night's humiliation flooded over him, scalding. Spanked like a truant teenager. He felt his face heating, a painful blush that made him suddenly, hugely angry again.

I meant what I said, earlier. He better not try it again.

 But his heart thumped with something like excitement. Let him try. It could be very interesting.

 Again there was no offer of something to drink. No idle chitchat, to pave the way. Garibaldi took a seat without asking, sitting on the edge of the chair, but forcing himself to appear casual. He paged through his notes, and looked up. "Where do you want me to start?" he asked, all business.

 "Wherever you like, Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan lowered himself to sit on the couch. Intent, completely unreadable gaze. Not angry. Not anything at all. Just ice.

 Garibaldi looked down at his readout and launched his report. Sliding smoothly past the departure of the Jove. No hesitation. No news of what had happened. Did Sheridan already know? Did Garibaldi care? He went on, two B&E's in the Zocalo area, a mugging downbelow. Other things. Totally routine. Nothing special. Nothing at all.

 He wrapped up with a remark about additional security needed in the docking areas. The evidence of increased incidence of smuggling. And that was it. He was done.

 Now he would see what Sheridan did. Did he know about the Jove? Did he care?

His pulse quickened. More to the point, would he do anything? He felt himself smiling.

 "Nice job, Mr. Garibaldi."

 The words startled him; his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Thank you, sir," he replied cautiously.

 Sheridan was suddenly smiling. A brilliant, perfect, icy smile. "Sounds like you have things well in hand. Thank you for your report."

 That was it? Garibaldi felt a stab of something like disappointment. Quashed it quickly. "Any time, sir. Night."

He made it halfway to the door, before the frigid voice stopped him.

 "There is just one more thing, Mr. Garibaldi. One little matter that was brought to my attention this evening."

 Here we go. When he turned to face Sheridan he had a hard time not smiling. "What's that, sir?" As innocently as he could manage. Prove it, Sir. Prove it.

 Sheridan hadn't moved from his seat on the couch. He looked comfortable. Magisterial. "Ivanova had some news from Mars Colony," he continued evenly. Inhuman calm. "It seems they made a raid on a freighter ship, and turned up all sorts of things. The Jove, I think it was called."

 Garibaldi forced himself to nod. Felt his heartbeat increase again. "Just left here last night, sir. It was the one I mentioned to you. Day before yesterday."

 Sheridan produced a slow, measured nod. His stare was unblinking. "I remember. I remember that you were a little upset that I didn't allow you the search order you wanted. Isn't that right?"

 He could feel himself flushing, in spite of the fizzy, almost carbonated anger and glee bubbling in his veins. Garibaldi shrugged loosely. "I think you were wrong," he answered honestly. "I'm just glad Mars got them. We don't need more --"

 "Oh, cut the sanctimonious bullshit, Garibaldi." Sheridan was suddenly standing, and the bounce of his stride, the balled fists at his sides made Garibaldi suddenly acutely wary. "You tipped them off, and you didn't miss a chance to make me look bad in the bargain. Did you?"

 There really wasn't anything he could say. Absolutely right, my dear captain. And by the way, you gave me everything I needed. I hardly had to do a thing.

 Garibaldi smiled, slowly. And then sobered, as he looked closely at Sheridan again.

 This wasn't anger. This was something entirely different. Something - gloating. Happy. Happy in a terrible sort of way. Garibaldi felt his hackles rise, registering the arctic calm of Sheridan's eyes. The thin, ecstatic smile that turned up the corners of Sheridan's mouth.

 "You seem to have forgotten something." Sheridan's words echoed strangely in the small room. "I think I made it clear that you were to cease this sort of activity, Mr. Garibaldi. I thought I showed you what would happen, if you ignored my warning and continued. Was I not clear enough? Or are you just too stupid to learn from your mistakes?"

 There was blood pounding, burning in his ears. Garibaldi shook his head slightly, trying to clear away the fog of anger and excitement that clouded his eyes. "Oh, I learned something," he said, feeling a grin split his face like a rictus. "Maybe just not what you had in mind. Sir."

 Sheridan nodded slowly. The smile on his lips was terrifying. "Then perhaps it's time to continue your lessons," he intoned clearly. Eyes dancing with a dark sort of light. "Maybe this time you'll learn what you need to know."

 "And what's that? Sir."

 "That I don't forget. And I don't forgive readily, either." Sheridan took a measured step toward him, still grinning.

 "What? You gonna whip me again?" Garibaldi laughed once, harshly. "It didn't work last time, Captain. What makes you think it will now?"

 "Last time was last time," Sheridan murmured, advancing another pair of steps. Such quiet, utterly lethal words. "Tonight is something else. That I can promise you. Mr. Garibaldi."

 Garibaldi fought the urge to back away. To get the hell out of here. I think you've gone over the edge, Captain sir, he thought dazedly. You like this a little too much. What the fuck is going on in your head?

 "Don't do this, Captain." His voice still sounded strong. Confident. At least there was that. Garibaldi shook his head slowly. "Don't push me. You don't want to do that." But there was something else going on, in addition to his pounding heart. His ice-cold hands.

 Excitement. Something so deep, so long hidden, that he could hardly recognize it. Something about the flare of Sheridan's nostrils. The promise of violence in the hooded, sparking eyes. Garibaldi felt his tongue go out, to wet his lips. It shouldn't be exciting. But it was. He felt himself wavering. Wanting suddenly to shout, to exult. Go ahead. Go right ahead, Captain. Beat the shit out of me. Isn't that what you want?

 A sudden, clarion message from a lower part of his anatomy. Pulsating, eager. Turning what was left of his mind into utter shambles. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay right where he was. Meet Sheridan's advance head-on. See what happened.

"Time for lesson number two," Sheridan husked, his face pale as death and just as cold. "You've pushed me too hard, Mr. Garibaldi. Now it's time to pay."

 "Give it your best shot." He could hardly hear his own voice.

It was unlike any fight Garibaldi had ever known. Oh, he'd had lots of fistfights. More than he cared to remember. But the stakes had never quite been the same, had they? Not quite self-defense. More along the lines of self-preservation. Something utterly different.

He ducked, and felt Sheridan's fist graze the side of his jaw. Just enough to make him stagger, but he was balanced again, quickly, knees bent, light on his feet. Quick. He felt himself smiling. Grinned as his own balled-up fist connected with Sheridan's belly. What was the man running on? Pure adrenaline? He didn't even flinch.

 And there was a tiny, increasingly frantic voice in his head. Don't let him get the best of you, Mike. Don't. Because if he does... What if you like it? What does it mean?

 Garibaldi snarled, and punched Sheridan again. Had time to feel his eyes widening before a fist loomed out of nowhere, sending him sprawling, crashing over a fragile end table, landing with a painful thud on the inadequate carpet. Sheridan like some demonic entity, on him before Garibaldi could even grab a stunned breath. Grabbing his shirtfront, hauling him to his feet.

"I know what this struggle is really about. It's about you, Michael. Whether or not you want to admit that you've been asking for this. From Sinclair, from me. From everyone you meet. That you like it. The pain. Being forced. Isn't that it?"

 Garibaldi produced a garbled noise before he managed a strangled, "No." His arms were quivering beneath Sheridan's cruel fingers. But when Sheridan slid his knee between the chief's thighs and nudged him, he felt the burning heat there. Watched Garibaldi flinch, and gasp with raw excitement.

 He wasn't trying to pull away. Not any more. Sheridan transferred his grasp to a one-handed grip, and put a finger out to stroke Garibaldi's trembling, sweat-streaked cheek. Smiled. And slapped him suddenly, a ringing, bracing sound.

 "I think you like being trapped, don't you?" He pressed against Garibaldi, mashing him against the wall. "You like it rough, Michael. And guess what. So do I."

 Another struggle, this one in earnest. A last-ditch attempt at denial. Sheridan caught him before he could wriggle free, and bore him to his knees. Garibaldi struck out mindlessly, and heard Sheridan grunt as Garibaldi's elbow smashed into his stomach. A brief second of freedom, enough that Garibaldi could whip around, send a flailing punch that connected nicely with Sheridan's jaw.

 The captain let loose something like a roar of fury. Not even fucking slowing down, Garibaldi's mind shrieked, and then he was dragged to his feet, iron hands on the back of his neck, got me like a fucking kitten, by the scruff of the neck, and flung over the desk again. The desk, God damn it, the fucking desk.

 There was a terrible weight pressing on him. Sheridan's entire body, hot and angry and furiously exciting. "Isn't this where you wanted to be, Michael?" The sneer of complete confidence, that made Garibaldi's own excitement crest sharply. No, you're wrong, you're so wrong, and yet there was his body, welcoming this burden, the sudden and terrifying jolt of readiness between his legs.

 "Want it, Michael? Want it again? Tell me the truth, God damn you."

 Fumbling at his clothing, loosening his trousers. Garibaldi closed his eyes, wanted to scream at the indignity. Howl with impatience.

 It was a nightmare. A searing, phantasmagoric, almost unbearably exciting nightmare.

 Sheridan's cool hand passed over his buttocks, and Garibaldi gasped, registering the lingering soreness, fighting the urge to lift himself, to push against that thoughtful, distant caress.

 "Are we finally clear?" The captain's voice held nothing of friendliness, and yet somehow avoided the cold, throttled quality of a few minutes ago. "Can you admit that you want this, and stop pretending?"

 He couldn't find words. Opened his mouth to speak, to curse, but there was nothing for him to say. Other than the truth. Yes. Yes, you're right. I want it. I want it more than I've wanted anything in a long, long time.

 A pinch with short, trimmed fingernails. Garibaldi shuddered, and heard a strange sound, as if from very, very far away. Something like a whimper. A gasp. Was that himself? He swallowed with difficulty.

It wasn't painful, any longer, this thoughtful trailing of fingers. And he felt a wail of frustration building, clogging his throat. A shiver of desire, a bolt of lightning exploding in his groin.

 "What do you want, Michael?" Sheridan's words were infuriatingly, horribly calm. "Tell me what you want. You want this?"

 A finger, pressing against him. This most secret place, the most forbidden. Garibaldi jerked with something like horror. "No," he heard himself rasp, and recognized the ring of truth. No, not that. That wasn't it. Not now. Something else. Something else he craved, with a ferocity that had turned his cock into a searing blaze of need.

 The finger retreated. "Then what, Michael? Tell me."

 "I -- I can't." He knew. The words wouldn't come.

 A pause. And then something else cool on the inflamed flesh of his ass. Something new, silky, incredibly arousing. Brushing against him, trailing elusive lines of promise. He groaned, lifted his hips. What was this? He didn't know, but shuddered again as it trailed between his open buttocks, a soft something tickling briefly against his balls.

 "You like the whipping, don't you?" Sheridan sounded grim, oddly pleased. "Don't play games with me, Michael. Say what you want, and I'll give it to you. Just say it."

 "Yes," Garibaldi whispered, fighting to keep his voice low, to avoid shrieking the words. Begging. "Please. Do it again. Please."

 The softness was gone. Silence. He wanted to crane his head around, see what was happening. There was no way to look. He felt the words building in his throat. Please, damn you, I said it, please just do it, do it, do

 The slice of the lash was a sudden brilliant light, bursting in his brain. He arched his back, breath exploding from his pent-up lungs. New kind of pain, many-fingered, all over his ass. A dozen pinpoints of jolting electricity.

 He could hardly feel himself pushing back again. Lifting his ass in the air. Without fear, without thinking, without shame. Yes. Yes.

 Again. Oh, again. His crotch was a throbbing mass of desire. The lash seemed to come out of nowhere, individual strands licking at him, biting into him. He tried to force his trembling legs further apart. Felt the whip on his thighs, back. The groaning flesh of his ass.

 A drop of sweat trickled into his eye, and he blinked rapidly, gasped as the lash stung him again. Again.

 "Please." The words were coming from someone else, had to be, this was not his own voice he heard, shivering, breaking, re-forming into a naked plea. "Please. Harder. I need it. Oh, please, harder." The throb of his cock, his testicles, at the words.

A break, and he sagged onto the desk, wanting to weep. Don't go, don't stop, please, I have to have this, I want it so much, don't you see, I have to have it.

 "Michael." There was a touch, again, between the fiery curves of his buttocks. Probing, gentle. "Trust me. I can make it even better. Do you trust me?"

 He felt tears starting in his eyes. Anything. Oh, yes, anything, just please, don't stop, don't stop or I will go insane. "Yes," he heard himself whisper. Ragged, juddering word.

 "Good."

Pressure. The strangest yawning, widening feeling. Something cool and mindless, opening him up, forcing inside him, inside this place where there had been nothing for so long. He felt a smile tear at his face, heard the rip of his grin.

 He was full. So incredibly, terribly full. Muscles clenching mindlessly, get rid of it. A bolt of pain, a shudder of discomfort. Warm, blossoming pleasure.

 Something hard and cool, stroking his forgotten buttocks. "What do you want, Michael?" He hated that voice. Oh, God, he hated it. "What do you want? Is this what you want? Tell me. Say it."

 He couldn't stop yearning toward it, the unseen it, the cold promise of it. "This. Yes. Please, yes." Still grinning, tasting a tear creeping down his face, slow slide of salty wetness.

 He heard it before he felt it. Single, perfect crack. A shock of agony, wrenching a fierce, exultant cry from his throat. Retreating. Aftershock. He moaned as his ass tried to recover, flattened flesh expanding, sending a different kind of painful message to his startled, reeling brain. His opening clenched, met the intruder there, flexed with surprise.

Pause. His breath was coming in ragged jerks. Another blow, and he tried to scream but couldn't, the pleasure was too much, agonized pleasure, the hot thing inside him like a living presence, pressing against him, sending waves of fire through his groin. His cock howled with excitement, frustration.

 Not sure how many more. Only the ice-cold shock of pain, aftershock. His testicles swollen into huge fiery spheres of lust. He wanted desperately to touch himself, ease the agony of his distended, aching cock.

 Another blow, ice turning to a conflagration of burning heat, and he screamed. Satisfied, his aching cock spurting mindlessly, one spasm, two, and with the second wave of pain yet another, until he was thrashing against the firm bedrock of the desk beneath him. Hearing his own voice, faintly, crying out with unspeakable pleasure.

 Some unknown amount of time passed, before he opened his eyes. Still locked in the ebbing retreat of his orgasm. Slowly becoming aware of the pain. The perfect, eminently suitable pain.

 A hand touched his shoulder, and he recoiled, biting off a shriek of sudden terror. "It's okay, Michael." Warm words, utterly soothing. "Relax. Lie still. I'm going to untie you now. Just relax."

 He closed his eyes. Felt another faint, echoing shiver of pleasure, fading now in the growing onslaught of pain. Soreness, he had never ached like this before. As if he had been opened up, gutted like a fish. Scraped clean. His asshole ached steadily. His stomach twisted, and he groaned. Nausea, a foul tide in the back of his throat.

 The hands working the bonds on his wrists were hurried, deft. "Hang on, Michael. Don't get sick on me. You're just reacting. Take a deep breath. Relax."

 He swallowed thickly, felt the burn of acid. His hands were free, but limp. He couldn't move. Couldn't put the pieces of his shattered brain together, remember how to coordinate muscles. He laid his cheek on the cool surface of the desk.

His legs were free, now. Hands were helping him up, and he tried, but trembling knees buckled. He was caught in a strong, warm grasp. Lowered to the floor. Leaning on something, someone, who was this? Was this Sheridan? Garibaldi opened his eyes, closed them again. His ass touched the floor and he cried out with the pain, tried to move away. Sheridan's unseen arms welcomed him, turned him so that his face pressed against clean-smelling cloth. Laying him on his belly, holding his head, warm fingers stroking his arms, his neck.

 "Just relax." Such calm, even words. He held onto them, a single lifeline in the midst of a sea of shock. "That was a lot more than most people take in a second session. Just lie still. Relax, Michael. Let go."

 He thought he might have slept, but it wasn't sleep, exactly. Too uncomfortable for that. A hiatus, a breathing spell. The nausea was gone. He felt strangely still now. As if the calm of Sheridan's words, Sheridan's fingers, were sinking into him. Spreading a balm over the jangled wounded cacophony of his nerves.

 Peace. In the midst of the lingering, stubborn pain of his ass, the heavy feeling of the plug inside him still. Garibaldi drew a deep breath, and felt himself smile.

 

* * *

Sheridan leaned back against the side of the desk, and allowed himself a tired sigh. His arms ached a little. His jaw, where Garibaldi had punched him -- when? Only half an hour ago?

 Garibaldi. Sheridan looked down, watched the closed eyelids flicker. Was he sleeping? Dozing, maybe. He would be exhausted. He couldn't be comfortable enough to sleep, really, but at least take a rest.

 He felt his face drawing up in a frown. Eyes roving downward, examining the results of their--activities. God, it had been over the top. He hadn't meant to do this much. Heat of the moment, Garibaldi's voice -- throttled, hoarse, so incredibly urgent, prodding him onward, making him do this. This.

 He couldn't see the marks of the earlier whipping. Completely blurred by these new relics. The angry red streaks of the leather cat. Cruel, black and purple cuts where the cane had bitten deeply.

Regret surged in his throat, making him glance away, tighten his protective hold on the body lying half-atop him. I shouldn't have started this. I didn't know, Michael. I didn't know you would like it this much. No one ever has, before. Not this much.

 Where did this come from? This -- need? How have you managed not to discover it until now, and with me? It isn't sex you want. I could give you that, if you wanted it, but it isn't what you want. What you want is pain, and it scares me, Michael. It scares the hell out of me.

 Sheridan let his fingers massage the tense muscles of Garibaldi's neck. Fingers that were still trembling a bit with reaction to what he had just done. Garibaldi made some small kind of sound, a tiny echo of the moans earlier, and pushed his face harder against Sheridan's rumpled jacket. Eyes still stubbornly closed.

 Maybe this was enough. Maybe it was all he needed.

 He wished, fervently, that he believed it. Closed his own eyes, and sighed again.

 

* * *

"Morning, Captain."

 He glanced up, brought a smile to his face quickly. "Morning, Susan. Have a seat." He gestured to the other chair at the table.

 "Thanks." Ivanova plunked her tray down on the table, and sat down, reaching up to rub a bleary eye. Stared at Sheridan's tray. "You're actually going to eat that?" she asked bluntly.

 He looked down at his plate. "It's healthy," he mumbled, poking gingerly at the unappetizing mass with his fork. "It has wheat germ in it, and something else. A whole lot of something elses, I think. I'm not -- quite sure." He looked up and shrugged. "Franklin's been on this healthy diet thing lately, and I thought I'd give it a try."

 "More power to you." Ivanova cast another doubtful look at his plate, and shuddered theatrically. "I'll stick to toast, myself."

 They ate in companionable silence for a moment. Or at least Ivanova ate; Sheridan forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls of the soggy concoction on his plate, and finally had to concede defeat. I think I'd rather have a heart attack every second Tuesday of the month for the rest of my life, than have to choke this crap down. Sorry, Franklin. He pushed the plate away with a revolted expression.

 "So how was your --" Ivanova broke off, looking past Sheridan. "Chief," she called, grinning. "Over here."

 Garibaldi. Okay. Okay. Take it one minute at a time.

 He wasn't sure what he expected to see. Exhaustion? More anger? Shame?

 He wasn't expecting contentment.

 "Morning." Garibaldi grinned at them, at Sheridan as much as Ivanova. Not more, not less. Blue eyes clear, looking astonishingly relaxed. "Was just on my way to the station house," he continued, glancing up at the chrono on the wall.

"Have a seat," Ivanova urged, hooking a chair from a nearby table and pulling it over. "You've got time for a cup of kaff, don't you?"

 Garibaldi's eyes flicked over to Sheridan's, the briefest of knowing glances. No censure, only rueful and faintly, startlingly humorous admittance: I sure as hell don't want to do any sitting today. Know what I mean, jellybean?

 "No time," Garibaldi told Ivanova, and there was a tinge of real regret in his even voice. "Maybe tomorrow. I better get going. Enjoy your breakfast." He smiled -- the surprise of an easy, natural smile -- and walked away.

 "Well, that's an improvement." Ivanova's words turned Sheridan to face her again. She smiled, with something like relief. "Glad to see he's out of whatever funk he sank into a couple of weeks ago. You guys have a talk?"

 A talk. That's one way of putting it. Sheridan smiled easily. "We got things straightened out," he replied, and was pleased at the complete candor -- no lies.

He does look better. In fact, I don't think I've seen him looking this well since -- Well, since I came on station. Maybe I'm seeing him feel good for the first time.

 He was still smiling when he and Ivanova stowed their trays and headed for C&C.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**    
Sheridan smoothed his jacket and sighed. Another day, another set of problems. Problems he might or might not be able to fix.

Well, that and a credit will get you a cup of kaff, Johnny. Stop whining.

 He glanced at the chrono. 0746. Just enough time to make it to the morning meeting, if he hurried. And if no one met him along the way, and buttonholed him about docking schedules, or restaurant sanitation, or the temperature settings in the alien sector, or seating arrangements at tomorrow's Council meeting, or the price of spoo.

What am I? Captain? Mayor? Ombudsman? All of the above?

 He sighed again. Shrugged, and left his quarters.

 No one was lying in wait for him today, it seemed. Ten minutes where he could walk, and think, and compose himself. Time to think about lingering problems, things that were not so easily or quickly solved as bugs in the Zocalo or a pissed-off Narn freighter captain wanting some ego strokes. Things like what Keffer had seen last week past the jumpgate. Rumors of danger, portents of destruction.

 And some things a little closer to home, right? Things that are a little more personal.

 Sheridan felt his face drawing into a grimace. Wanted to shy away from the train of thought entirely. Wouldn't let himself. Not again.

 You've been putting off dealing with this for a couple of days now. How long do you think you can keep stalling? How long can you delay handling this?

 He permitted himself the brief, cotton-candy indulgence of wishing, for a moment, that he could delay it indefinitely. Forever, preferably.

 But that was just a wish. It wasn't reality.

 Reality was what faced him every time he saw Michael Garibaldi.

 The good spell, as he had begun to call it, had lasted five whole days. Five days of peace, when the opinionated, stubborn security chief had been almost a new person. Grinning, good-natured. Easygoing. More than once Sheridan had caught himself musing on the change. Was this the Garibaldi that Sinclair had known? Calm, hard-working, dependable? Honest almost to a fault, but considerate as well? The change had been nothing short of miraculous. Where had Garibaldi found this calm? This lightning-quick readjustment?

 Sheridan had just begun to relax and enjoy it, when it ended. Not quite as quickly as it had begun, but close.

 Warning signs. Garibaldi's tardiness. The morose look on his square-jawed face at meetings. A report of a somewhat more violent than necessary arrest downbelow.

And other signs. The naked gleam in Garibaldi's sere blue eyes, yesterday afternoon, on the lift. No words, but a frank plea: you know what I need. I want it. Please.

 Sheridan shook his head roughly. How could he deal with this? This thing he himself had started? Honesty? Could he pull Garibaldi aside and tell him the truth? "You scared the shit out of me last week. For me this was an overblown reaction, something I did because I wasn't thinking and you made me madder than hell. For you? I'm not sure what this is. I'm not sure of anything. And the look in your eyes now scares me worse. Much worse."

 He had to do something. For two days now, he had managed to avoid addressing this. Wanted to believe it would go away, disappear, become a faded, sepia-tinged memory. But this morning, as he strode briskly to a meeting he didn't particularly feel like attending, he recognized that delaying would only make a bad situation worse. Garibaldi, for better or worse, had become Sheridan's responsibility. In more ways than the obvious one of Sheridan's ultimate responsibility for everyone on this station. No, this was much more personal. And painful.

 He approached the conference room, and mentally shook himself. Collected his thoughts, took a deep breath. Time now for business. Later -- He would deal with Garibaldi. Today. It couldn't wait longer than that. To wait was not fair. For either of them.

 

* * *

"What the hell is going on here?"

 Garibaldi flinched, his grip on his mug of kaff spasming, sending hot liquid splashing over the front of his tunic. He grabbed for a napkin and looked up angrily. "Anyone ever heard of belling the cat?" he remarked, glaring.

 Franklin looked immediately apologetic. "Sorry, Michael." He took a napkin off his own tray and offered it to Garibaldi, traditional white symbol of peace. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you. I thought you heard me a minute ago." He put his tray on the table and pulled out a chair to sit.

 "No, I didn't hear you." Garibaldi swabbed at the blotchy stain on his tunic. "I didn't hear you until you came up and bellowed in my ear, that is."

 Franklin looked as if he were trying desperately not to smile. And failing utterly. "As my great-grandmother used to say, Michael," he began carefully, "you're about as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. You okay?"

 Okay. Funny you should ask. "I'm fine," Garibaldi replied curtly. "Or at least I will be when my heart starts beating again."

 "Keep eating crap like that and being startled won't be what causes your heart attack." Franklin eyed the bacon and eggs on Garibaldi's plate with something like horror. "What do they call that? The Myocardial Infarction Blue-Plate Special?"

 Garibaldi spared him a short, contemptuous glance before stabbing his fork vengefully into the cooling mass of eggs. "Give me a break, Stephen," he muttered quietly. "So I wasn't in the mood for roots and shoots this morning. Sue me."

 Franklin took a measured bite of his oatmeal. "No," he replied through a mouthful of food. "I'll just bill you."

 "Yeah. Do that." Garibaldi made an attempt at chewing. Was it his imagination, or did the food today really taste like machine oil? Gluey, greasy, cloying. His stomach lurched, and he dropped his fork with a sigh. No use. He wasn't hungry, anyway. Only chose this damn breakfast because it used to be his favorite. Thought it might tempt his vanishing appetite. It had been worth a try, anyway.

 Slowly he became aware of Franklin's narrow-eyed gaze. "Michael, are you feeling all right?" The doctor put down his juice and leaned forward on one elbow. "You look tired. Sleeping okay?"

 Sleeping? I think I've heard of that before. Sounds nice. Wish I knew what it felt like. "I'm fine, Stephen." Garibaldi kept irritation out of his voice, but only barely. "Work's been busy, that's all. The station never sleeps; why should I?"

 "I can give you something that will help you -"

 "No, thanks." Garibaldi made a last abortive attempt at cleaning his jacket. Surveyed the persistent, sludgy-colored stain and gave up. "I gotta change uniforms before work," he said briefly. "Enjoy your breakfast."

 "More than you enjoyed yours?" Franklin didn't smile. "Michael, I mean it about watching what you eat. Will you at least give that eating plan a try? Ten days?"

 Garibaldi glanced at him, and shrugged. "Hey, we all die sometime, Stephen." He heard the remote quality of his voice, felt a vague stab of disquiet. It even sounded strange to him. "Now or later. What does it matter?"

He felt Franklin's troubled gaze on his back as he walked away. Did it matter? He couldn't stir himself enough to wonder.

 

* * *

Sheridan put the cap back on the bottle of Scotch, and stowed it back in the cabinet. Picked up his glass and wandered over to sit on the couch. Waiting.

 The Scotch tasted smoky, painting a delicious burn down his throat. Welcome distraction. He hadn't had a drink in several days. Shouldn't be drinking now, should he? Never mix alcohol with business.

 But he took another sip anyway. For courage. Courage to face the person who was probably right now walking down the corridor to Sheridan's quarters. The man Sheridan had called half an hour ago.

"Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan had schooled his voice to complete calm. "Would you mind dropping by my place when you get the chance?"

 "No problem, sir." Calm voice. Only Sheridan could have heard the emotion throbbing just beneath the surface, right? The level words, floating on an oily murk of need. "I'll be there in about half an hour. Give me time to wrap up here."

 "I'll be here." He'd cut the connection quickly. Thankfully.

 And now. Sitting here stewing, with a glass of liquor he shouldn't drink but would. Because he was miserable. Because he didn't want to face what he so feared he would have to face, shortly.

 The door chime rang, and he stared at the door for a moment before knocking back the rest of the Scotch at a draft. Stowed the glass on the kitchen counter on his way to answer the door.

 "Mr. Garibaldi." Sheridan magicked a smile out of thin air. Could feel its falsity. "Come in."

 It was the work of a pair of seconds to take in Garibaldi's appearance. The palsied shake of his fingers. The white, tense line of his mouth. The hooded, anguished blue eyes. The security chief didn't seem to walk inside, so much as hunch his way forward. Propelled by need, by reluctant urgency. The dichotomy was so apparent, it seemed to color the air around him. A grayish, noisome cloud.

 "Something to drink?" God, he hated the sound of that. Stilted company talk. It couldn't help but sound strange to Garibaldi.

The man shook his head slowly. "No, thanks." The sound of his broken, desperate voice made Sheridan's hackles rise superstitiously. "Thanks for seeing me," Garibaldi added, avoiding his gaze.

 "It was my idea," Sheridan reminded him quietly. "We -- we need to talk, Michael."

 A slow, distant nod. "Yeah. Talk."

 "Sit down, will you? Relax." Sheridan gestured toward the couch.

Seated, Garibaldi's trembling seemed to abate somewhat. But his posture was the definition of anguish. Perched on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees. Back no longer the stubborn, proudly straight carriage Sheridan knew, but bent a little. Sagging, beneath a weight no one could see.

 Sheridan lowered himself carefully into a chair, and licked his lips carefully. "What's going on, Michael?" he asked quietly. "Talk to me."

 The blue gaze crawled reluctantly upward, to meet his own. "I think you already know," Garibaldi hissed, words vibrant with emotion. "Don't you?"

 "I think so. But I'd like to hear you say it. Don't make me guess, Michael. Say what you're thinking. Be honest with me."

 Red blotches marred Garibaldi's otherwise pasty-white cheeks. "You want me to say it?" The words were scathing, vomited out from some dark place that Sheridan didn't want to know about. Had to know about, if he was to save this man. Save him from himself. "All right, I'll say it. I want you to do it again. I need you to do it again."

 "Do what, Michael?" Sheridan fought to keep his voice level. Calm.

 A snort. "You want me to beg?" Garibaldi swallowed audibly. "Okay, I'll beg. I'll do whatever you want. I don't care. Just do it again. Please."

 Sheridan's throat clenched, and he had to cough before he could speak. "What, Michael? You want me to beat you again? Is that what will make you happy?"

 The blue eyes shimmered behind a veil of sudden tears. "God damn you," Garibaldi husked. "Yes. Do it again. Please. Please, God, do it again." His mouth closed, lips invisible.

 Do something. Make the tears go away, John. Do something that takes that look off his face, because if you don't you're going to go insane. Give him what he wants, and remember that you enjoy this, too. Don't you? Don't you enjoy this? You did. You did once.

 Sheridan lurched out of his seat. Found himself at Garibaldi's side, registered the other man's hissed intake of breath as Sheridan's weight shifted his balance. As if from a distance, Sheridan watched his own hand snake out, grasp Garibaldi's chin, forcing his face up, willing the blue eyes to meet his own.

 "Just tell me one thing." There was a grating quality to his words. Harsh. Much more powerful. The anguish was gone from Garibaldi's face: he was silent, eyes wide.

 "Do you want this? Or do you need it? Do you like it, or feel like it's punishment?" Sheridan smiled grimly. "I can punish you, Michael, if that's what you crave. But let's call a spade a spade. Don't try to manipulate me into doing something you don't want to admit you want. I don't like that. Hate it."

 Garibaldi's mouth worked. The tears had abated, but the hectic red in his cheeks had spread, touching his neck. "I'm - I'm not --" He broke off, his flush deepening.

 Sheridan let his grasp tighten. Pushing Garibaldi's head back against the back of the couch, leaning in to whisper very close to his ear. "Nothing is forbidden," he crooned easily, watching as Garibaldi's thunderstruck eyes closed. His shiver as Sheridan's breath touched his ear. "You can let all the walls down, Michael. I can be what I think you want me to be. All I want is your honesty, in return. Punishment. Pleasure. Anything in between. Say what you want, Michael. Say it." The last sentence was whispered against the perfect whorls of Garibaldi's ear. Punctuated by the press of his lips.

 Garibaldi sat so still, he seemed frozen in place. But Sheridan could feel the race of his pulse, beneath the hand that held Garibaldi's head. Felt the throat working beneath his palm. "The -- punishment," Garibaldi whispered, choking the words out, individual seeds of growing urgency. "Punish -- me. Do it -- again. Please. Yes."

 "And pleasure?" Sheridan nipped at Garibaldi's earlobe, biting it lightly. "Will you take pleasure, too? Will you accept it, Michael?"

 A fraction of a nod. A trembling sigh as Sheridan kept the tiny bit of flesh in his mouth, sucked on it for a moment. "Yes." Breathy, shaking. "Yes. Please. Anything."

 Sheridan pulled the chin in his hand around sharply, and put a blistering kiss on Garibaldi's open, panting mouth. Ended it just as quickly. Felt himself grinning. This. This I can deal with. Maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought. He's just out of touch. Has trouble expressing himself. Oh, yes, this I can handle.

 "Good," he said slowly. Watching Garibaldi take in his broad grin. The excitement that suddenly fired Sheridan's loins. "Very good, Mr. Garibaldi. Then I think we understand each other very well."

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**    
He took his time in the bathroom. Washing his hands, smoothing his hair. Not that his appearance mattered all that much, under the circumstances. Sheridan grinned briefly. No, not at all, if the truth were known. But he had his pride to think of. Professional pride.

 Besides, taking his time served another function. A bit longer for things to brew. To create the atmosphere he wanted.

 He arranged a few toiletry items on his sink, before glancing at the doorway. Had it been long enough? Probably. Yes. Only a few minutes in real time, but reality wasn't quite as functional as usual tonight. This was fantasy. Time had slowed. Especially for some people.

 Sheridan wiped his hands on a towel, and turned to walk back into the bedroom.

 And felt his breath catch anew in his throat, at what he saw.

 God, this was gorgeous. Did he know? Could he possibly know how incredible he looked?

 Garibaldi lay as Sheridan had left him, on the bed. Of course. How could he move? The cuffs on his wrists and ankles were soft, but effective. Linking him to the corners of the bed, splaying him spread-eagled, motionless. Nothing but the audible panting of his breath. Frustrated, almost angry.

 The collar had been a delicious struggle. Sturdy, not the heavy posture collar that Sheridan preferred. That he would save for another time. But Garibaldi's eyes when he saw the length of leather in Sheridan's hands... And the look of rage, as he felt the collar looping about his neck. Oh, that had been incredible. Sheridan felt his mouth curve upward now, in a musing smile.

 "Part of the game," he remembered saying. Ignoring Garibaldi's fierce glare.

 "I'm not a slave," the chief had blurted, moving his head, trying to avoid the inevitable.

 Sheridan wanted to laugh, but not cruelly. "No," he had said easily, fingers working deftly on the collar's fastening. Tight enough to feel, loose enough to be eternally safe. No matter what. "No, you're not a slave. But you're in my world now, and this is what *I* want. You'll wear a collar, because I like the way it looks."

 A hot, angry stare. One Sheridan quickly took care of. The blindfold was stout leather, lined with lambswool. Comfortable and effective. There was a howl of anger, but he listened intently for the telltale surge of fear, and didn't see or hear it. Only frustration. "Damn you," Garibaldi's throttled voice had blustered. "I can't see you. Let me see."

 "No." Sheridan had allowed himself a private, satisfied smile.

 And walked away.

 Now, he knew the choice had been a good one. Garibaldi's naked body was shining with a thin gleam of sweat. Panting, head moving aimlessly, trying to see, failing. Certainly there was some sense that Sheridan had returned to the room, but he couldn't be sure, could he? Only thought perhaps, maybe... Jerky, anxious head movements. Compelling.

 Sheridan didn't speak. For a moment he wasn't sure he could. Desire swelled, hot and suffocating. My God, this was better than he had ever dreamed it could be. His cock had swollen inside the lamentable confinement of his trousers: a heavy, compelling presence. He wanted to strip, to stand naked here at the foot of the bed and take himself in hand, bring himself off staring at the fidgeting, beautifully anxious body in front of him. He felt a spasm jolt through his groin. Close. He was close to coming, just standing here. Looking at Michael Garibaldi's proud, restrained form. His darkened, erect cock an undeniable reminder of his own helpless excitement.

 Sheridan closed his eyes, and took a deep, cleansing breath. Coming would be nice. It would also be an indulgence. His own pleasure could come later. It was Garibaldi who mattered right now.

 He walked over to the dresser, and took down the items he had displayed there. Garibaldi heard him; had to have heard him. But he said nothing, perhaps waiting for Sheridan to speak.

Sheridan moved to the side of the bed. Put a hand out to touch Garibaldi's flank lightly. Saw the jerk of surprise, the indrawn gasp.

 "Are you ready, Michael?" Sheridan whispered. Heard the smile in his own voice. "Tell me how you feel."

 Garibaldi's head whipped toward him, drawn finally to his voice. "John." The name was like a throttled scream. "Oh, God, do something. Please, do something." A drop of sweat trickled down his temple.

 He let the crop do the touching for now. Easy, delicate sliding motion. The feet, so vulnerable and yet so prosaic. Watching Garibaldi's toes curl, wanting to move away. Unable. Up now, tracing a line up the shins. The thighs, the great muscles bunching helplessly. Sheridan grinned again at the way Garibaldi's hips arched upward, craving something, anything. Too bad. That wasn't until much, much later.

 Skirting the thick flesh at the juncture of his thighs. Flirting with the lines of hipbones, the flat plane of belly. Tickling the crop into the tangle of thick hair in the armpits. Now down again, watching Garibaldi's nipples harden, rising to exuberant wrinkled exclamation points. Ah. Yes. That would do nicely.

 Sheridan laid the crop on the bedside table, watching Garibaldi flinch at the purposefully loud sound. Then he sat on the side of the bed. Not speaking, and he watched Garibaldi's mouth open to say something, close, open again. He didn't know what to ask for. Of course not.

 He took the left nipple between his fingers, rolling it, urging it to be even harder. Garibaldi gasped, arching to his hand, tongue emerging to wet his lower lip. Something incoherent, that might have been a name. Whose, Sheridan didn't know. Didn't care.

He released the hard bud of nipple, and attached the clamp smoothly.

 It was a heavy-duty clamp. More tension than others he owned. Not quite as beastly as the few he kept in their own small box. But certainly mean. Intense.

 Garibaldi made a garbled cry, mouth drawing down in an open, suddenly youthful expression of shock, of pain. "Oh, God," he gasped, and Sheridan saw him bite his lip, dragging a noisy, shuddering breath of air into his lungs.

 No time to let him get used to it. That would be beside the point. The second clamp went on, matching pair, and Garibaldi's voice was a strangled blur of surprise. Music. A raddled symphony.

 Sheridan glanced downward. Oh, yes. The pain hadn't eased Garibaldi's priapic state. On the contrary, his hips moved mindlessly, sliding the few allowed inches on the smooth sheet. Face still contorted with the pain of the nipple clamps, but oh, yes, the rest of his body recognized the increasing torment of his groin. Even if Garibaldi's brain didn't, his body did. Sheridan reached out to touch a clamp lightly, and was rewarded with a rich, shivering groan. Felt his own cock leap at the sound. His own nipples hardening.

 You wanted it intense, Michael, Sheridan thought, eying the last of the items he'd brought to the bed. Your wish is my command.

 When he touched Garibaldi's cock he thought the man might simply come unglued. A curdled cry of shock, blending into a groan of desire. Hips bucking beneath his hand, urging, pleading. Sheridan examined the flesh in his hand briefly. Lovely, thickly veined hardness. Weeping now, a drop like dew at its tip. Excellent. He wasn't too late, then. He could delay this indefinitely.

 Sheridan unhooked the wide metal ring he held, and slipped it around Garibaldi's heavy cock. Latched it again, ignoring the yelp of surprise, the way the hips suddenly sank, trying to evade him.

There. Try to come before I want you to, now, my friend.

 He played him a little while. Indulgent span of minutes, exploring Garibaldi's corded, attenuated body. Enjoying the throttled sounds of impatience, the brief pleading words. The goosebumps on hairless flesh.

 Then nothing. Leaving him behind, lying helpless, groaning on the bed. Calculated minute, two, five. Sheridan listened to the sigh of ragged breath, and let his hand steal down to brush briefly against his own hardness. Gratuitous, oh, God, he couldn't recall being this excited in years. Not since -- the date failed him. Long. Too long.

 Time to move again. His own hands, trailing along Garibaldi's sweat-streaked sides, the hollow above his hipbones. Smiling at the pleading words that tumbled from the other man's lips, mindless, frantic. The swollen, deeply red flesh of his imprisoned cock.

 He reached up to touch the nipple clamp. "Ready?" he whispered gleefully, and saw Garibaldi's mouth open, to protest, to agree, he was never certain. Sheridan yanked the clamp off with one smooth, practiced motion.

 A howl of agony. Twin to the next, as the other clamp was removed, equally quick.

 Sheridan leaned over the twisting body and shut off the sound with his own mouth. Rough, uncaring kiss, feeling Garibaldi's lips crush back against his teeth, forcing his tongue inside to lave brutally. He touched the blazing nipples, pinched them, forced his kiss again as Garibaldi cried out against his mouth.

 He didn't want to lever himself up again. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to keep kissing this aghast, panting mouth. Feel the echo of Garibaldi's shock inside his own mouth. Couldn't allow that. Not yet.

 "Don't fight me," Sheridan whispered intently, watching as Garibaldi's stumbling mumbles cut off, the face beneath him freezing with anticipation. "Do exactly as I say, Michael. Anything else would be most unwise."

 A single, panted "Yes."

 Sheridan reached up to unfasten the cuffs from the lines that connected them to the bed. He took Garibaldi's now-loose wrists in his hands and pressed them together, above Garibaldi's head, flat on the bed. "Don't move, Michael. Don't dare to move."

 "No." A quick, birdlike nod.

 Free the ankles. Let his fingers brush seemingly unintentionally against the hot, bulging flesh at Garibaldi's hips.

 "Turn over." His own voice sounded raspy, thick with desire and calculation.

Garibaldi's arms trembled as he pushed at the bedding, rolled over onto his belly. Muscles bunched and jerked beneath his skin, twitching anxiety mixed with now-frantic need.

 Sheridan refastened the cuffs quickly. Briefly checked the skin for signs of irritation. Good. Check the blindfold. Still in place. Excellent.

 "What were you wishing for, Mr. Garibaldi?" He made his voice purposefully louder. More commanding. "Tell me what you want. Tell me."

 A choking sigh. "Pl -- Please. D-- do it. Wh --" The sound of a frantic indrawn breath, as Sheridan pulled lightly at his collar.

"Tell me, Michael." Cold, reverberant words. Totally unrevealing of his own excitement. "Tell me, or piss me off. You don't want to do that. I promise you don't."

 "Wh -- whip me." Breathy, excited. "Please, God, please, do it. Do it."

 Sheridan grinned. "What do you want me to whip, Michael?" He trailed light fingers down Garibaldi's twitching back. "Your back? Or maybe this?" His hand slid downward, sliding over a still-marked buttock. "Your ass, Michael? Want me to whip your ass? Is that what you want?"

 "Yes." Emphatic, almost angry with desperation. "Yes, god damn it, yes. Oh, please. Please."

 Sheridan reached out for the crop again. Let his eyes take in the picture.

 Oh, he had done an excellent job of marking him last week, hadn't he? Fading bruises, the faint outlines of the cane. Marring the perfect, round buttocks, the backs of tense thighs. He ran the tip of the crop down one lingering bruise, and heard Garibaldi's throttled groan.

 "What we just did, Michael? That was the warmup. An appetizer, if you will. Now it's time for the main course. Are you hungry, Michael? Are you?"

 "Yes," Garibaldi exploded, turning his head to cry the word.

 "So am I," Sheridan replied, almost inaudibly. Garibaldi responded well to the crop. Huge panting breaths, synchronized with the lovely smack of tanned leather. Pale ass going slowly pink, heating up. He was trying to move. Trying to offer himself for more. Eternally frustrated, as the cuffs kept him nearly flat on his belly. Imprisoning his throttled cock beneath him.

 "Do you like that?" Sheridan paused a moment. "Is this it, Michael? Is this what you came here for?"

 He gave another practiced flick of his wrist, and was rewarded by a jolting gasp. "Yes. Harder, please, god, harder." Shivering breath.

 "In time. In good time."

 He spent another twenty minutes with the crop. Working not just the ass, but the backs of the thighs, spreading the pink flesh outward, no one blow bruising in itself but rendering the skin vulnerable. Paving the way for the next course.

 Sheridan walked back over to the dresser, and laid the crop carefully, lovingly aside. Took up the last new thing he had prepared.

 "Something new for you, Michael." He kept his voice a steady croon. Replete with promise. "Something I think you'll like."

 The sightless head turned, wavering on his neck. "John." The name trembled with urgency.

 Sheridan walked back to the bed. "It's called a dressing whip, Michael." He trailed the slim knotted end over Garibaldi's inflamed, twitching buttocks. "It has a very -- different effect. I think you'll enjoy this. In a manner of speaking, of course."

 He watched Garibaldi drag in breath to speak, and then brought the whip down for the first blow.

 Part of the whip's particular joy was the sound it made. Whistling, high-pitched whine as it sliced through air. The almost inaudible snap as it encountered vulnerable flesh. The sound was part of the glamour. The rest -- Well, that was the best part, wasn't it?

 He watched Garibaldi buck, corded arms straining against the cuffs that bound him. A curdled gasp, as the pain began to sink in. The particular, stinging tsunami of pain that would keep cresting, longer and longer. Timing was essential. The full impact would not register for several seconds. Maybe as much as a minute.

 He could wait. He had learned patience, years ago, in these matters.

 A panting pause. And then Garibaldi's hissed "Aaahh," another struggle. Groaning. Sound emerging between gritted teeth.

 The whip sang down again, and this time Garibaldi screamed a little. Learning quickly. Recognizing that as much as it hurt when it struck, the whip's real pain came a bit later. Visibly bracing himself. A ragged cry when it came, the aftershock, the second wave.

 "Enough?" Sheridan cocked the whip over his shoulder, a jaunty pose that Garibaldi couldn't possibly appreciate. "Is that enough, Michael? Have you found what you were looking for?"

 It was a moment before Garibaldi found words. And their eagerness startled Sheridan. "Again. Oh, God, thank you. Again. Please, please, again."

 By the fifteenth stroke of the whip Sheridan knew it was fading. The lust that had fired his arms, cemented his resolve, was ebbing. In its place crept doubt, like an animal slinking toward him, belly flattened against the ground. Doubt that made his arm falter, fall to his side. That opened his eyes and ears to reality.

 There were sobs in the air. Great, gasping sobs, whose bleak, satisfied tinge turned Sheridan's knees to water. Several of the lashes had bitten deeply enough to draw blood: a shock of scarlet on a deep pink background. The sheet beneath Garibaldi's moving body was soaked with a deep stain of sweat.

 Oh, God, Michael. We're dangerous for each other. So dangerous.

 Sheridan tossed the dressing whip away from him, with a snarl of disgust. Dropped on his knees beside the bed, and leaned over to touch Garibaldi's neck lightly. Forced himself to ignore the shuddering gasp at his touch.

 "Enough, Michael. Enough. You can't take more than this." His own voice throbbed with urgency now, near tears, shock like a foul tide at the back of his throat.

 "Do -- Don't s-stop." Hissed, pain-laden words. Unspeakably eager. "Don't stop, more, please, don't stop, tell me you won't stop."

 Sheridan felt his lips drawing back from his teeth. Damn you. You're using me, and I won't allow it. No more. No more.

 His hands were unintentionally brutal as he unfastened the cuffs. Let them fall dangling at the sides of the bed. Turning Garibaldi over, seeing the soggy wetness of the blindfold. If he tasted that wetness it would be salt. Salt sweat, salt tears. His own eyes burned dryly, beyond apologizing, into the realm of desperation.

 He kissed Garibaldi frantically, didn't move when the other man protested, as the trembling mouth beneath his own begged him. Words asking him to keep hurting, to keep dealing the agonizing things that were his stock in trade. Sheridan pushed the blindfold away, put his own hand over Garibaldi's shocked eyes, blocking the intrusion of light. Letting him get used to seeing again. And all the time this kiss, this plea of an embrace that tried so desperately to redeem him, to remind Garibaldi that pleasure was here, too, that pain was not the only goal in the galaxy. Not the one that mattered.

 He took his hand away, and Garibaldi's haunted blue gaze finally emerged. Eyes puffy with tears, brow twisted with a kind of longing Sheridan shuddered to see. "Don't stop," Garibaldi gasped, and a tear escaped down his temple. "Why did you stop, don't stop, it's what I want, hurt me, just keep on -"

 "Damn you, I won't." He kept the words quiet, but heard the tremor of fury, the agony of sadness. "This isn't all there is, Michael. I'm going to show you what else, if I have to rape you to do it. You're going to feel good, Michael. Because that's part of it, too. Whether you want to believe me or not. Whether you want to accept it or not. You can feel good, Michael," and he put his hands on either side of the sweaty face, willed the blue eyes to meet his own. As if by sheer force of personality he could make Garibaldi see. "You can feel good. It's okay, Michael. It's all right to feel good."

 A wracking sob. "Noooo..." Trailing off into a cough.

 Sheridan moved without thinking. Fired by urgency, his own need forgotten, had it ever existed? Immaterial. Taking Garibaldi's painfully swollen penis in his hands, such a gentle touch. So different now. Releasing the catch, and hearing the man shriek as blood rushed back in. Terrible, shredding cry of agony. But not for long, oh, Michael, not for long.

He leaned forward and took Garibaldi's cock in his mouth. No finesse: swallowing as urgently as he could. Forgotten skills coming back to save him, unlocking his throat, until his tight lips touched springy curled hair. Just so. Leave it here. Just let the pain go away.

 He could hear Garibaldi's broken voice. Wailing a threnody of pain, and sudden, startled pleasure. Calling his name, calling another name, and he knew that name, didn't he? Knew it well. Sheridan closed his eyes, concentrating on the hot, tortured flesh in his own throat. Withdrew enough to let the softness of his tongue lave battered tissue. Sank down again. Garibaldi sighed, and spoke a name again. His own name, Sheridan's name.

The hips beneath him bucked twice, and then Sheridan's mouth was filled with liquid, spurting so deeply he had no choice but to swallow, because he was not letting go, not until this pleasure was done. Until he had given Michael the only gift still in his power to give.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**    
Sleep was out of the question. For so many reasons.

 He lay on his belly, watching Garibaldi. The struggle to stay awake, the strong-jawed face softer now, exhaustion drawing deep lines around his mouth. Blue eyes closing gratefully.

In sleep, Garibaldi was so still Sheridan had a moment's superstitious fright. But see, the chest moving ever so slightly. The sleep of the terminally exhausted.

 He watched for a while. And then got up, exchanged wrinkled tunic and trousers for a dressing gown. He padded barefoot into the kitchen, drank a glass of water. And found himself in the living area. Sitting on his comfortable couch. With only a head full of buzzing questions for company.

 Were the problems solved? Was the man now sleeping in Sheridan's bed whole? Healthy? No. In danger? Not from Sheridan. Perhaps from himself. Yes, that was very likely.

Garibaldi had no borders, that Sheridan could see. An all-or-nothing, black-or-white sort of person. The most exciting -- and most potentially dangerous -- sort of bottom.

 He needed training. Not as a submissive; he didn't think Michael could be truly submissive if his life depended on it. But training, nevertheless, if this was to continue. He couldn't control him. More to the point, he couldn't control himself very well when he was with him. Richard would be seriously pissed.

 Sheridan blinked. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

 It took almost half an hour before the link to Earth patched through. It was late in California; Richard was probably asleep. Then again, maybe not. Who knew what sort of hours he was keeping these days? If it was anything like fifteen years ago, he might well still be awake.

 Sheridan expected to get an answering service. Was ridiculously pleased when a familiar, craggy face appeared on his screen, instead of a blinking message.

 "John?" Richard sounded groggy, and stunned. "Is that you?"

 "It's me, Richard." Sheridan found himself grinning, a bit tremulously. "It's been a long time."

 The other man ran a careless hand through thick silver hair, managing to rumple it even more than before. His expression was frankly amazed. "My God, Johnny, it's good to hear from you. Asshole. Why the hell have you been such a stranger lately?" The tiny smile playing about the corners of his mouth tempered the words with humor.

 "It's -- been a long year. A long couple of years." Sheridan paused, and shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry I haven't called," he continued softly. "I've thought about you often."

 A wry, familiar shrug. Philosophical. "Ah, well," Richard replied, smile growing to a rueful grin. "You're a big boy now, John. You stopped needing me a long, long time ago."

 Did I? These days, I'm not so sure.

 Memories flashed by, a mental jumpgate taking him back. So far back.

 His twenty-first birthday. A party that had quickly gone from fun to riotous. Kella McIntyre. Sheridan felt himself grin slightly at the memory. Black-haired, gorgeous, wildly bent Kella. Introducing the guest she'd brought to the party. Sheridan had been reluctantly impressed. As drunk as he'd been that night, as wildly happy, he hadn't missed the air of authority around Richard Arrington. Blue-green eyes that seemed to crackle with power, with intensity. With control. Dressed as though this were some kind of formal reception, instead of a party with three tapped-out kegs and thirty drunken cadets staggering around breaking things.

Oh, he'd been impressed then. But not nearly so much as the following week. The night he arrived at Arrington's house, for what he thought would be a friendly dinner. An evening that turned out to be something entirely different. More. So much more.

 My teacher. My master. Ultimately, my friend. I thought I was done. All these years since then. Fifteen years. And in that time I haven't screwed up. I've never forgotten the things I learned at your side. At your feet. You trained me to be very, very good at what I do. When I walked out of your house, a year later, on my way to my first posting, I was ready. Ready to do you proud.

 Now I'm not sure of anything any more. Now I'm afraid I've bitten off more than I can chew. And so I'm back, to ask you for your help. Something I've never done before.

 He forced a smile, but nothing escaped the aquamarine eyes of his former master. Sheridan knew that, too. There was no hiding. "Actually, I called to make you a proposition." He kept the words light, because that was part of the game. No need to state his tension. The fact of this late-night call was testimony enough to his situation.

 "Proposition?" Richard laughed: familiar, astoundingly gentle laugh. "Now I must say that sounds intriguing. But then you were always creative." He lifted his eyebrows inquisitively. "What do you have in mind?"

 "A visit. You, here. A few days. Do you think you could do it?" He felt his control slipping. No pleading yet, but an intensity he couldn't stifle.

"Visit, eh?" The hooded eyes narrowed slightly. "Somewhat more than a pleasure trip, I take it?"

 "You could say that. I have a -- situation. And I could use some guidance."

 Richard frowned. "This is interesting." He wasn't smiling at all: totally composed, intent. "In fifteen years I haven't ever heard of you having problems, John. At least nothing so significant you felt you needed to tell me about it." Sheridan didn't miss the slight, unhappy tone behind the words. But Richard forged on, quickly. "This is something more than play, then."

 Sheridan nodded heavily. "Then tell me," Richard said calmly.

God, how wonderful to be able to talk. To know that he could be honest, and not fear anything. Sheridan sighed. "I'm working with someone," he began carefully. "And it's been intense, and quite a bit of fun. But now things are taking a turn I don't like. And I don't seem to be able to get through."

 "A new submissive is often --"

 "No. He's not -- I really don't think he's submissive. Not traditionally, at least." Sheridan bit his lip, frowning. "Richard, there's just something else going on here. And I'm damned if I know what it is."

 A careful nod. "And you'd like me to play him. See what I think?"

"Something like that. If you can get away for a few days."

 Richard paused, and then produced a loose, elegant shrug. "Under normal circumstances, I'd probably say you should come here. Bring him with you. But you aren't just a post-graduate student of mine any longer. Commander of a very large and very important space station. I think it might be harder for you to get away than me." He smiled briefly. "I'll have to take care of a few things, before I can leave. I would say, perhaps Wednesday?"

 Relief flooded suddenly through Sheridan's veins. Cool, bracing. "Wonderful," he breathed, and meant it with every fiber of his body. "I'll have your ticket ready for you."

 "Excellent." Richard smiled slowly. "I must say, John," he added in a calm, velvet voice that made Sheridan want to shiver. "This sounds quite intriguing. And I'm looking forward to seeing you. It's been a very long time."

 "Yes, it has." Sheridan smiled, suddenly embarrassed. Terribly excited. "Far too long. Thank you, Richard. I'll see you when you get here."

 "Indeed. Take care of your new toy, John. We'll get him into shape soon."

 The screen blanked. And Sheridan flopped back in his chair, suddenly boneless with a relief that was almost crushing.

 Oh, thank God. Thank you, Richard, for not being as cool as you could have been. Thank you for agreeing to this.

 He shook his head slowly. Grinned. And went to make himself a drink.

 "Your new toy." Sheridan tasted the Scotch in his glass, relished the heavy flavor. Toy was not what he would call Mr. Garibaldi. He was more a wild animal than anything else. An animal no one had ever been able to tame. Except maybe one person, and that person wasn't around right now. Sheridan was the designated keeper, and he hadn't been doing the greatest job.

 I hope you're ready for this, Richard. I can't tell you what will happen when you get here, but I can promise you one thing.

 It's going to be a wild ride.

 He finished the drink in one searing gulp.

 Sheridan walked back toward the bedroom. Still not sleepy, nerves now humming with new excitement, new energy. But it was late. At least lie down, be still. Try to conserve for tomorrow.

 He stopped by the door. Garibaldi must be dreaming. Twitching restlessly in his sleep. Mouth forming words that were muddled, completely unintelligible. But his face -- Sheridan felt his own throat clench. There was no rest, in sleep such as this. Tormented, tossing, unconscious face slick with sweat. Pulled into a frown of sadness, of loss so profound Sheridan could not stand it. He started out of his frozen stance at the door. Moved to the bed, lay down carelessly. Pulled the protesting, mumbling body into his arms.

 In a few moments the dream had passed. Moving Garibaldi into a deeper, more genuine realm of sleep. But he moved against Sheridan. Pressing closer, an animal seeking the warm shelter of Sheridan's body, mindlessly intent.

 Sheridan leaned back against the headboard. Let his arms curve around Garibaldi's muscled, bunched shoulders. Listened as ragged breathing eased, became the regular sounds of deep sleep. And closed his own eyes, tiredly.

 Rest, my friend. For once, just rest. We'll get to the bottom of this. Just stay with me, and let go.

 Sleep crept up behind him. He dozed off without realizing it. ~~~~~~

There was someone here. Someone in this bed that usually held only himself. He struggled out of sleep, trying not to move, not to disturb.

 Remembered who this was, who this had to be, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

 Michael.

 The man had curled up to Sheridan in his sleep. He wouldn't have thought of Garibaldi as a person who would snuggle, who would spoon next to him and sleep so well caught in a tight tangle of limbs. But the still-sleeping face so near his own was profoundly relaxed. Suddenly terribly youthful, vulnerable. The pure line of an unclenched jaw. Delicate half-moons of closed eyelids.

 He felt an ache of sudden, stabbing sweetness in his chest. This was the face hidden behind the mask of everyday life, the face Michael Garibaldi showed no one. No frown of frustration, no sneer of habitual anger. Only relaxation, allowing his real self to gleam through.

I would not have thought it. Ever. But I think I could fall in love with you. If I could see this face -- this strong, healthy, peaceful face -- then I could love you very well. I could show you love, and I'm not sure anyone else ever has. Perhaps. Once. But you've been without, and you've forgotten what it is to be loved. It has made you crude, and hard, and willful. But you're so much more than that.

 Sheridan reached out a cautious hand, letting his fingers trail along the exposed perfect line of jaw. Why don't you show this face to the world? Is it too hard? Too risky? Will you awaken at my touch, and let the mask settle back? Flinch away from me, and close your borders again? If you could only let go, Michael. Let go of your pain -- so deep, so old I can't even begin to imagine it all -- let go and let someone inside again. It's risky. But it's worth it, my friend. Oh, it's worth it. Believe me.

 The face next to him moved, lips opening, closing. Thin eyelids flickering.

He didn't want to startle him. To scare him. He was quite prepared to leave him alone. Let him awaken gracefully, without the tension of realizing where he was, who he was with. But it was too tempting. Too full of rightness. He leaned over, placed the softest kiss on one eyelid.

 Blue eyes were staring at him. Suddenly awake, aware.

 Don't freak out, Michael. Please, God, don't go weird on me. For once.

 "Morning." Sheridan made himself smile, feeling the immediate stab of fear behind his word.

"M - Morning." Garibaldi seemed frozen. Not pulling away, but stunned, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

There ought to have been words. More words, bridging the awkward gap of this silence. But Sheridan could think of absolutely nothing to say. Nothing that could possibly touch the surge of desire that swept through him. Desire tempered by caution, desire that did not know what sort of reception it could expect. He could only stare, caught himself in the blue eyes before him.

 It seemed a very natural thing to lean over to kiss him. Very natural, and terrifying. Was this actually happening? Did he want it to happen? More to the point, did Garibaldi? Hesitant, trembling kiss, on lips that stayed firm for a moment. The firmness of disapproval, the hardness of fear.

 And then softening, opening, another kiss that sang with sudden certainty.

 When he looked back on that morning, a great time later, he saw it always through some sort of haze. A scrim, fading clear colors to muted echoes, a stillness in the air that belied the eternal motion of a huge space station. A moment of hush, a brief breath outside time, when there was only this. This moment, this being.

 No fear in the blue eyes now. No anger, or sadness. Clear, radiant azure, smiling now at him hesitantly, growing understanding.

 He had already explored this body beside him. He didn't expect to be explored, himself. A careful touch, a warm hand wandering without real purpose, a blind man discovering flesh. He felt Garibaldi's mouth on his again, on his throat, slipping lower. A quest for understanding. Sheridan leaned back on the pillows.

 A brief, shivering eternity later. He looked up, watching. Garibaldi sat motionless, hand still roving unconsciously. Eyes gone a new shade: slate, rain-washed blue. The color of desire in his flushed cheeks.

 Sheridan sat up. Knelt. This kiss could endure an hour, a day, a lifetime and he would not stop wanting it. Hands going out to cradle Garibaldi's face, no rough touch but the celebration of contact. Sheridan felt breathless. Still shaking, now with the rise of passion in his blood, like rich heavy wine.

 It was Garibaldi who moved first. Lying down. Expressionless face, concentrated. No need for words; they had gone past that sort of communication long ago. Sheridan felt himself smiling. The yearning need between his thighs, the rapid pulse of his heart. I want you. Oh, God, I want you, and maybe, just maybe, you want me, too. Now, in this moment, you have let go, and what I see before me I cannot describe. Only touch, and kiss, and feel.

 He parted Garibaldi's legs slowly. Touching him with gentle fingers, confident fingers. Watching as the man's face softened with the power of lust. Accepting the press of Sheridan's body, wrapping warm legs about him. Opening to his touch.

 He took his time slipping inside. Memorizing the feel of this, the urgency he welcomed and postponed. He kept his eyes on Garibaldi's. Every nuance: the flinch of pressure, stretching. Growing need. Kissed his open mouth and was hungrily kissed in return.

 Had he been able to, he would have stretched this moment into eternity. A dozen lifetimes, a thousand spent inside this willing, panting body. It would have been right. It would have been enough.

 He moved urgently, the moment speeding up. Met by thrusting hips, the surprise of another ardent smiling kiss. Fanning the fire, until he could not stop himself, greedy movement, the harsh sound of drawing breath.

 A shiver, a shuddering moment of perfect harmony. And then the weight of his orgasm bore down, a heavy monolith crashing to dusty fragments around him. The hiss of Garibaldi's breath inside his own mouth, calling out wordlessly. Spasms around his own imprisoned flesh, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure down his spine. ~~~~~

He went to shower. When he came back, the moment was gone. As he had known it would be. Transient, ephemeral, as fleeting as mist. He could not hold onto it. It was the nature of such moments, to be brief. To leave behind the bittersweet tang of their passing, like a waft of rare, precious perfume.

 Garibaldi was already dressed. And with a surge of sadness, Sheridan could see the old, hard set of jawline. The tension already creeping back into the muscular body.

A brief, unreadable look. "I should go," Garibaldi stated emotionlessly. Pulling on his boots quickly, efficiently. "It's late."

 Sheridan nodded slowly. "You're right." Hearing the way the rebuff crept into his own voice, in spite of his caution.

 Again silence, but a stillness thrumming with words unsaid. Words he couldn't say, words he knew Garibaldi wouldn't say. The almost audible rebuilding of walls, bricks snicking into mortar.

He watched him gather himself. Tidy, unwashed and rumpled but oddly austere. There was a flash in Sheridan's mind: Garibaldi, in a garden. Bent with years. The rough brown of robes. And then it was gone, leaving him shaken.

 "I - I'll see you later." Cloudy storm eyes flickering to his own, backing away.

The door hissed shut behind him, and he was gone.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**    
 _"Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create_    
 _se non etterne, e io etterno duro._    
 _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"._

 _E poi che la sua mano a la mia puose_    
 _con lieto volto, ond'io mi confortai,_    
 _mi mise dentro a le segrete cose._

 _Quivi sospiri, pianti e alti guai_    
 _risonavan per l'aere sanza stelle,_    
 _per ch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai._

"Before me there were no created things,   
Only eterne, and I eternal last.   
All hope abandon, ye who enter in!"

 And after he had laid his hand on mine   
With joyful mien, whence I was comforted,   
He led me in among the secret things.

 There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud   
Resounded through the air without a star,   
Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.   
    
 

 

* * *

Garibaldi stretched, and glanced at the chrono on the desk. 2025 hours. He frowned. Where had the day gone? Flashed by unnoticed, while he sat here buried in paperwork.

 Paperwork. Why don't they just hang me up by my thumbnails all day instead? Sounds a little more enjoyable.

 He frowned with distaste, and closed down the report he had been working on. Some Downbelow thug who'd gotten caught in some fishy, under-the-table dealings. Caught by his own colleagues, no less. They'd been most unhappy. And very effective: Garibaldi wasn't sure what the ultimate cause of death would turn out to be, but he suspected poison. Something both lethal and apparently pretty damn painful. This was one con man who'd played his last mark.

 Garibaldi sighed. And good riddance, too, although he was faintly aware that it wasn't a very kind thought. But then again, the tourist swindles Hal Tenkanen had run the past couple of years hadn't been kind, either. It was pretty karmic. Trying to pass off a shitty home-brewed pharmacological derivative as Dust. Killed by something that had apparently turned his entire brain to sludge. In about ten minutes. It was appropriate, in a sort of nauseating way.

 He cleared his desk rapidly. Time to knock off for today.

Yeah, you got plans tonight, don't you, Mikey? Big plans.

 He shivered, hands pausing in the midst of stowing away data crystals. Plans. His heart took a startled, gigantic leap in his chest, and his hand tightened, sending a squirt of chips scattering on the floor.

 Sheridan's got something up his sleeve. Like a fucking cat with a canary.

 Garibaldi closed his eyes briefly. Willing himself to calm down.

 It had been a weird week. Weird as hell. Waking up in Sheridan's quarters, in Sheridan's bed, naked as the day he was born. And what had followed -- He felt himself flushing painfully with the memory. A couple of embarrassed days, avoiding Sheridan's horribly enticing hazel eyes.

 And then beginning all over again. The taste in Garibaldi's mouth: flat, harsh, like metal. The way his mind wandered, forcing him back, trudging through stacks of memories, wading through the marsh of his own muddled, frantic brain. The need, the unspeakable, blazing need that made him want to scream, that found him one morning playing with himself, staring into the mirror in his small bathroom. Hardly registering the terrifying, mindless desire in his own features as he pinched his own nipples viciously. Feeling the jolt of pain, the answering swelling chorus of his satisfaction. Pain was so right. So necessary.

 Yesterday. Walking to his quarters at the end of his shift. Motion around the corner. Hard, strong hands pulling him aside, pressing him against a cold metal wall. A familiar, craved face grinning at him. "What are you doing tomorrow night, Mr. Garibaldi? Have any plans?"

 He'd gasped, knees suddenly gone to noodles. Almost afraid at the immediate wash of complete, annihilating desire that had swept through him. "No. No plans." Wanting to press forward, yearning to the promise of Sheridan's hands.

 "Good. Don't make any. Be ready at 2100 hours." Golden brown eyes daring him to protest, knowing full damn well he wasn't going to do any such thing. Turning, releasing him, walking away as he flailed to keep his balance. Standing suddenly alone, breath coming in jagged, almost painful jerks.

 Then today. At the end of a day he'd spent immersed in work. Hardly even pausing to look up, much less eat lunch. A man possessed, filling his brain with reports and surveillance and countless details, minutiae, anything to keep from thinking about what was in store tonight. Anything to keep him busy so that the need in his gut didn't sink claws into him. Clouding his mind, making him hard and desperate and so horribly, utterly impatient.

 But work was done now. He'd have to hurry to grab a shower, change clothes. There was no question of being late. That ploy had vanished, along with Michael Garibaldi's last remaining innocence. No, he would be ready, and he would be more than willing. Oh, so much more.

 He picked up the scattered data crystals and threw them in a drawer. Walked out of his office at a controlled near-run. And felt his face creasing in a thin, wanton smile.

 

* * *

He had just put his shirt on when the door chime rang. Garibaldi muttered a curse, thanked providence that he'd at least had time for a shower, and went to answer the door.

 In pointed contrast to his own frazzled outlook, Sheridan looked perfectly, utterly calm. Not a hair out of place, and smiling slowly. "Am I early?" he asked in a level, humorous voice. He was dressed casually, all in soft slate blue, and carried a bundle under one arm.

 "No, no." Garibaldi gave him a flustered, cautious smile. "I'm ready. Almost. Come on in."

 Sheridan brushed past him, the touch of a shoulder that made Garibaldi feel like screaming. "It's that open-shirt look," the captain observed, hazel eyes completely unreadable. "I rather like it."

 Garibaldi could feel himself flushing, glancing down at his unbuttoned shirt. "Give me five minutes," he blurted, pulling the fabric together and fumbling for buttons. "Just have to -"

 "Don't bother." Garibaldi shivered at the flat, almost careless tone in Sheridan's voice. "I want you to wear this instead, anyway." He held out the package, still smiling.

 "What is it?" He took the bundle gingerly.

 "Your costume, of course." At Garibaldi's immediate suspicious look Sheridan suddenly laughed. "Clothes, Michael. They're just clothes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Put them on, and let's get going."

 The strength in his voice was like a vocal cattle prod: Garibaldi jerked around, taking two steps before shaking his head, turning to look uncertainly back at the captain. "Going?" he echoed, doubt surging. "Where are we --"

 "Never mind. You'll find out. Now get dressed, all right?" Still smiling, damn it.

 He felt incredibly embarrassed, suddenly. Modest. Hadn't he been naked in this man's bed only last week? It didn't matter. He wanted to dress in private. Garibaldi walked over to the bedroom, and hoped Sheridan didn't follow him. Wasn't sure he wouldn't, but was relieved when his privacy was respected. For the moment, at least.

 The bundle held a simple shirt and trousers. Sheridan hadn't lied. White shirt. Black pants. No big deal. Why the production number?

 Garibaldi dressed quickly. The shirt was loose. Comfortable. The pants were not. Had Sheridan gotten his size wrong? How did he know his size anyway? This would be embarrassing if they didn't fit.

 But they did. Snugly. Garibaldi made a face. Not to his taste. But then again, it wasn't his taste at issue here, was it?

 He was headed back to the living room when he saw himself in the mirror. And stopped cold.

 I am not going outside in this. No fucking way.

 

* * *

Sheridan fought down impatience with difficulty. Time enough. Plenty of time. Ahead of schedule, in fact. No hurry.

 He closed his eyes and allowed himself a brief, heartfelt prayer. Let this work. Let this be what it could be, and not turn sour. Let him be willing to give it a try. If he wasn't, then he wasn't sure what to do.

 A slight sound, and his eyes snapped open, flicked toward the bedroom door.

 He waited a moment. Languid, leisurely moment. And then let himself smile. "Nice, Michael. Very nice."

 The clothes had been a last-minute decision. Garibaldi didn't favor anything that really showed his body to advantage. And that was a shame. Something Sheridan knew he needed to rectify.

 The contrast between the crisp, clean white cotton and dark trousers was compelling. Nothing outrageous; he hadn't lied about that. But stunning. By God, the pants looked as if they'd been painted on. By a deft and talented artist. Tight enough to outline everything, not so much that anything was revealed. White shirt turning Garibaldi's blue eyes to clarion azure.

 Sheridan couldn't resist a little smirk of satisfaction. Letting his eyes travel slowly up, to reach Garibaldi's flaming face. "I think that will do just fine, Michael," he stated evenly.

"I can't wear this." Garibaldi looked utterly miserable. Confused. Clearly dazzled by the lewd look on Sheridan's face. Just as obviously mortified by his outfit. "This isn't -"

 "You will wear it." Casual, seemingly uncaring. Precisely the tone he wanted. Sheridan walked over, until he was standing very close to Garibaldi's tense, unhappy body. Put a hand out to rest on the flat belly. "You'll wear it because I want you to wear it," he whispered, leaning to direct the words very close to Garibaldi's attentive ear. "Because you'll do what I say tonight. Everything. Is that understood?"

 Garibaldi shied away. It was child's play to catch his arm, drag him back. Breathing heavily. Walleyed, trembling. "Everything," Sheridan repeated in an intense hiss. Let his hand slip between Garibaldi's thighs, give a vengeful squeeze before retreating. Not before registering the ready hardness there. "Say yes, Michael. Say 'yes, sir.'"

 "Y-- Yes, sir." Words so laden with mixed desire and anger, Sheridan couldn't have told them apart. Forced out between tight lips.

 "Good. One more thing." Sheridan reached into his pocket. Took out a slim strip of leather. Took Garibaldi's arm again and snapped it around his wrist, one deft motion. Before Michael could even know what he was doing. "A reminder," he murmured, and dropped Garibaldi's arm. "That's all."

 Garibaldi looked at the bracelet, back at Sheridan. Eyes gone cloudy with angry comprehension. "I said I wasn't a slave," he whispered. The glint of violence in his gaze.

 "I never said you were." Calm, so calm, he was quite proud of that voice. Unruffled. "But for tonight you're to obey me. This is to remind you of that. Are we clear?"

 A slow, reluctant nod.

 "Good. Shall we?"

 He let Garibaldi go before him, for now. Out of character for a sub, but serving an enjoyable purpose. Watching the tight, round ass in these perfect trousers. An indulgence. God knew tonight would be over quick enough, for Sheridan. He had to take his pleasures where he could get them. Garibaldi, now -- Well, his evening was just beginning, wasn't it?

 

* * *

Sheridan wasn't talking. Still smiling, and Garibaldi felt his jaw beginning to ache, from gritting his teeth. Led around like some kind of animal, mindlessly, no fucking idea where they were going. This was a back-door route: avoiding the main hallways, using a service lift instead of the larger main elevators. He was at once grateful that no one was likely to see him in this tarty getup, and hugely worried.

He tried asking once. "Where are w-"

 A lightning-quick glance, searing eyes that aborted the rest of the sentence in his mouth. "You'll see." A peremptory hand on his elbow, steering him ever onward.

 Downbelow, then. Packed with people, none of whom turned even the most remotely interested glance in their direction. Maybe they weren't recognizable out of uniform. Garibaldi felt suddenly dizzy. This would be nice grist for the mill, wouldn't it? Babylon 5 Chief of Security, all decked out like some expensive Mars boy toy, following Captain Sheridan with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Nice. There were more than a few people around here who would find that very useful knowledge indeed.

 He wanted to turn around and run. Head back to his quarters, avoid this. So why were his feet going forward? Why wasn't he struggling?

 He didn't want to know. Didn't care. Deep Downbelow, now. How had Sheridan ever learned his way around? When had he become this familiar with the station? Garibaldi felt a lurch of sudden, reluctant respect. There were still times when he himself felt like he ought to leave a trail of bread crumbs, during one of his more detailed security inspections down here. Sheridan walked quickly and purposefully, without the slightest hint of hesitation or indecision.

 Twisting turns, snaking down hallways filled with the tiny living cubicles that packed this level. The occasional shop, probably selling illegal goods, but then he wasn't here on official business, now, was he? Bigger fish to fry. The merchants were safe this evening.

 A particular dark entryway, no door. Their destination, apparently. Garibaldi felt suddenly uneasy. He knew this station. Knew it. This wasn't part of his information. What was this place? New? Or so secret even his long-fingered information net hadn't run across it?

 Inside. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the Stygian dimness. Almost bumped into Sheridan, who had come to a complete halt near the entrance. It was crowded, this tiny meter-square room. Garibaldi backed up against the wall, pinned by Sheridan. Intentionally?

 "Good evening." The voice was cultured. Narn? Garibaldi squinted at the figure facing Sheridan. Yes, Narn. Odd.

 "Evening." Sheridan sounded completely at ease. Confident.

 The scarlet eyes turned to Garibaldi, completely expressionless. "I don't know him." Staring at him, speaking to Sheridan. "His face is known to me, but he is not. He'll have to be cleared."

 "Understood. We can wait."

 The Narn disappeared through a door, leaving them alone in the dark for a moment. "Where are we?" Garibaldi hissed furiously. "What the hell is going on?"

 He could vaguely see the gleam of Sheridan's white teeth as he grinned. Hands coming up to Garibaldi's neck. The press of something cool and smooth on his skin. "In time, Michael. It will be clear very soon." And the something on his neck closed, and with a snarl of rage Garibaldi recognized it. The fucking, triple-damned collar.

 "Get that off of me." As lethal as he could make the words. Trying to raise his arms to take it off himself, but pinned by Sheridan's inexorable bulk.

 "No." No grin now. The reserve in that one word made Garibaldi freeze in place. "I think I told you before, Mr. Garibaldi. You'll do as I want tonight. You belong to me right now. Not permanently. But tonight. And if I want you to wear a collar you'll wear it."

 "Bastard. I don't want t-"

 A slap, out of nowhere. Not hard, just enough to rock his head around. Get his immediate and acute attention. "For that, you get an added bonus." Garibaldi's eyes had adjusted enough now that he could see Sheridan's expression. Tense, more than a little angry. Unsmiling as he took a length of leather from beneath his jacket. "And understand this, Michael. You fight me on this, and I'll make sure we take the public way back uplevel. Maybe take a stroll through the Zocalo on our way home. How would you like that?"

 Motion at his throat, and he heard the snap of something latching. A tiny, insignificant weight attached to the hated collar. Pulling at his head, forward, until only a bare millimeter stood between his face and Sheridan's. "It's only for fun, Michael," and Sheridan kissed him once, startlingly sweet press of lips, gone far too soon. "Remember that."

 His throat was suddenly tight with fear. "Where are we?" Heard the terrified groan of his own voice. "What's going on?"

 Another kiss, even lighter than the first. "You'll see." Maddening. "You don't always get to know what's going on in advance, Michael. That's part of the fun. The surprise. Relax."

 "But -"

 "No buts." A hand slipped around him, to close on his buttock, tight squeeze. Garibaldi groaned. "Let go and keep an open mind, Michael. You're going to have fun. I promise." Another squeeze.

 The Narn re-emerged, so quiet neither of them heard him until he cleared his throat softly. Sheridan turned easily, and Garibaldi felt himself flushing when he realized Sheridan still had his hand on Michael's ass, only reluctantly letting go. Visible. Humiliating.

 "Everything seems to be in order." The Narn didn't bother disguising the surprise in his voice. "I must say, Sir," he added, sotto voce, "your guest tonight is not one I'd anticipated ever seeing here."

 Sheridan laughed once, gaily. "First time," he stated, giving the leash the tiniest of tugs for emphasis. "I'm -- broadening his horizons, so to speak."

 "Indeed." The doorman's nod was unruffled. "Enjoy your visit with us tonight, Captain."

 They brushed past the Narn, and approached a different doorway, one Garibaldi hadn't seen until now. Featureless, with the subdued dull metal look that his mind immediately identified as plashield. Tough to get sensor readings through. Certainly not impossible, by a long shot, but enough to escape a routine scan. He watched Sheridan submit his hand for a scan, and was astonished to see the tiny flash of a laser. DNA confirmation? That was a pretty intensive scan for a nightclub. Expensive, and startling. This place took security seriously.

 Then the door swung open, a hiss of air escaping, and they were inside.

 Still dark, but not the inky blackness of the anteroom. No, this was murky, but Garibaldi could see well enough.

 It was a larger place than he would have guessed, from the modest entrance. Certainly not spacious, but fairly generous. The air was faintly smoky; Garibaldi detected the tang of marijuana. Astoundingly sumptuous surroundings. Soft leather booths, sculptures, wall hangings whose subject matter was abstract but oddly compelling. A bar at either end of the roughly rectangular room. And a centerpiece: a gorgeous, spiraling staircase leading up to a second level, invisible from here.

 There were not a lot of patrons. Garibaldi was not surprised; the level of security at the door suggested a rarefied clientele. He saw a handful of humans, as many Centauri. None of whom he recognized. It was a quiet crowd: conversation, laughter, but none of it obtrusive. Music played demurely, some ethereal, meditative piece of the sort Garibaldi usually disliked. Seeming completely appropriate here.

 There was very little time to reconnoiter. Garibaldi felt the pull of the leash, and gritted his teeth as he stumbled forward after Sheridan. Twining between tables, some people looking up at them. Recognizing his humiliation, the leash, oh God he couldn't stand this. Paraded around like a show dog. Garibaldi felt his face flushing painfully.

But it wasn't ridicule on some of these faces, was it? Something like frank appreciation. He heard Sheridan exchange a few brief words of greeting with a man and a woman at one table. Saw the woman's eyes travel up and down his own body, smiling slowly. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be someone else. Right now.

 A last table, where one person sat. This appeared to be their destination, and Garibaldi felt another surge of hot, angry anxiety.

He looked at the captain, and swallowed. Sheridan was grinning happily, suddenly amazingly boyish. "Richard," he said, dropping the hated leash and walking over to shake the man's hand enthusiastically. "Good to see you here. Enjoying yourself?"

 The man had half-risen from his chair to greet Sinclair; now he sat down again, making a courteous gesture to the one remaining chair at the small table. "Just getting the lie of the land," he replied easily, smiling. "Join me?"

 Sheridan took a seat. Still ignoring Garibaldi altogether. The slight made Garibaldi's jaw clench again. All right. So who the hell was this?

 Sheridan's friend was definitely human. Garibaldi's practiced eye placed him at about fifty years old, perhaps fifty-five. Even seated he could tell the man was tall. Very tall. A shock of thick, perfectly silver hair. Genteel, even features, quite handsome. Dressed in conservative, expensive black. Nothing ostentatious, but by their very understatement the clothes shouted money.

 He wanted to sit down. To lower himself, so that people could stop staring. So that he could disappear into the dim light. Make himself not here.

 Nothing. Standing here, while Sheridan and whoever this was chatted. About nothing, laughing like old friends, as if Garibaldi wasn't even here. He felt both invisible, and horribly exposed. Face flaming, fidgeting. Unsure what to do. His instincts said move. His brain told him to stay still. He wasn't sure which would win out.

 As it happened, he didn't have to decide. It was decided for him.

 The man -- Richard -- looked up at him. Garibaldi almost gasped at the surprise of his eyes: amazing, sea-green, artificial? But no, nothing of the strangely glassy look of implants. Just wildly unusual color. Cool as water, unreadable as a reflecting pool. His smile was private, and not meant as a greeting.

 "I take it this is your latest -- conquest." He didn't look at Sheridan, although the question was clearly meant for him. Still fixing Garibaldi in the sights of his compelling eyes.

 "This is Michael." Garibaldi started, staring at Sheridan. The sound of pride in his voice -- what the hell was going on?

Something in his expression must have alerted Sheridan; his smile faded. "Give us just a moment, Richard. If you don't mind?"

 "Of course not." A slow, elegant nod.

 Sheridan stood, taking a pair of steps to stand next to Garibaldi. The briefest touch of a warm hand on his arm. "Remember what I said," he stated intently. Capturing Garibaldi's frantic eyes with his own, holding them effortlessly. "Tonight you do what I tell you to do. Without question. I won't let anything happen to you that you don't want. Nothing bad will happen. You have to trust me, Michael. Now more than ever. Can you do that?"

 He wanted to yank his arm away. Turn on his heel and head for the door. But something in Sheridan's calm, intent gaze made him stay. "I -- I'm not -" He caught his breath, listening to the sudden hammering of his own heart.

 "You'll be fine." Sheridan smiled, and Garibaldi felt the heat of that smile flood through him, narrowing his focus, until all he saw was this man, this cryptic, dazzling person standing before him. "Just fine." A brief, casual caress, and then Sheridan was sitting again.

 He no longer felt the stares of other people. Or if he did, it didn't appear that he minded quite so much as before. Dawning awareness, of his own excitement, of fear that had begun to blend seamlessly into desire. He had no idea what was going on. Who this person, this Richard, was. But the desire was there. The willingness, new and dizzying. Garibaldi swallowed, and felt the collar jump against his throat. The dry, metallic taste in his mouth.

 "Come over here." He looked up, saw Sheridan's ready smile, not so warm any longer. The hazel eyes, compelling him. Making his legs move, before Garibaldi knew he was obeying. Walking over to stand by the captain, between the two chairs. He could feel the imprint of two sets of eyes. One familiar, soft golden brown. The other cool aqua.

"Kneel down, Michael."

Garibaldi hissed a gasp, turned his imploring gaze to Sheridan. And met nothing but command. Solid, calm control. "Kneel, Michael," the captain repeated evenly, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

 Oh my God what am I doing here, I don't fucking believe this.

 He knelt stiffly, unwillingly. Hating the sudden flush of excitement that boiled in his veins. The carpet was soft, giving under his knees. His face felt as if it would catch fire.

 And then a hand on his chin, pulling up his ducked head. A cool, unfamiliar hand. Burnished perfect nails. "Handsome." Richard's green-foam eyes regarded him with something like appreciation. Stroking his jaw with soft cool fingers. Moving to his throat.

 Terror lurched in his belly. I don't know you, who are you, what is this I don't know who you are why are you touching me like this I can't

 "It's okay." The quietest whisper. So close to his ear. Warm breath on his skin, a hand on the back of his neck. Garibaldi jerked, stared. Sheridan. Smiling, comforting, so calm, he didn't look worried, only something else, something calm, proud, gentle. Eyes locking with Garibaldi's, holding firmly, promise of control, but also of caring.

 He stared into those eyes. Kept staring as cool fingers opened his shirt. Tracing lines that burned on his chest. He held a lifeline of soft gold-shot brown, as he felt the cotton fabric slip from his trembling shoulders. The shock as his nipples were touched, pinched lightly. He gasped, but didn't dare blink, couldn't let himself break the connection, the link with Sheridan.

 "Very nice. Lovely. He's quite responsive, isn't he?"

 "Very." A flash of pride, of pleasure, in Sheridan's lulling voice.

Dreamlike. His heart was no longer pounding with fear. Beating now with something like desire. Fragile, delicate, but desire. He was faintly aware of being half-naked, fondled and prodded like an animal in the marketplace. But there was also the hint of pride, as he moved a little beneath Richard's roving cool hands. As he heard the tiny sound of pleasure he made when the fingers played with his nipples. Coaxed them into ready, excruciating hardness.

 And then the musing touch left him, and he blinked. The soap bubble of unreality popped; he was back and suddenly afraid again. Not so much as before. But dreading, at the same time that a part of him was terrifically, mindblankingly excited.

 "Stand up, Michael."

His head jerked around, eyes widening. If that had been control in Sheridan's touch, then this voice held command. Light, confident. Steel beneath the cool whisper of silk. The blue- green gaze was unreadable.

 He stood without planning it. Only found himself on his feet suddenly, knees trembling. Panting a little with expectancy, only he didn't know what to expect. Didn't know anything, any longer.

 And the other men were standing, too. Richard was taller even than he'd expected. A lanky kind of elegance, easy on his feet, easy inside his own skin, and suddenly memory flared in Garibaldi's mind. Another tall body. Another easy, catlike sort of grace. Not as slender as this man, but the haunting echo of similarity. Enough to dry Garibaldi's throat. Sting his eyes with needles of reflexive tears.

 He couldn't take his eyes off Richard, suddenly. Watched as a long-fingered hand reached out to take the leash, trailing it through his fingers. Wrapping the end securely about his hand.

 "You look so beautiful." A whisper in his ear, forgotten voice, and Garibaldi gasped, wanted to lean back, feel Sheridan's taut, powerful body behind him. Strong hands were at his wrists, drawing them back, pulling at him. The leash going tight, forcing his eyes forward. Staring at Richard's implacable, gorgeous face. Pressure on his wrists. He was being bound, and he wanted to wail with terror, with rage. Sigh with acceptance.

 Sheridan's face appeared in front of him. So close, so wonderfully near that Garibaldi could feel the baking heat of his body, radiating through his clothing. A smile, a wordless look. Kissing him suddenly, hard, thoroughly. A kiss that turned every nerve in Garibaldi's body to immediate, raging flame, leaving him gasping.

 "Have fun, Michael. Go with Richard, and have fun." Another brief benediction of a kiss.

 The leash pulled at him, and he stumbled a little before he figured out how to walk again, how to move without his arms at his sides, without looking down to see where his feet were headed. Staring at Richard's black-clothed back, nothing else, there was no one else here. Sheridan was gone. The other people were gone. Even the music had gone silent.

Stairway. Sweeping upward. He put his foot on the first step, and forced his head around. A lone figure, standing at a small table. He could no longer quite make out his expression. Last whimper of doubt, he suddenly wanted to cry out, back away. Unsure.

 Forward again, and he had to look, so that he didn't trip. Up, up the stairs. Up to something new, something so terribly new he could no longer think. Only feel. The panting, terrified urgency of his body. The throb of readiness between his legs.

 Top of the stairs. When he managed a glance over his shoulder, Sheridan was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**    
He decided to stop in Earhart's for a drink. No one he knew that well inside; he smiled, said a few words of greeting in passing. Took a seat at the bar and ordered a Glenlivet. Neat.

 He wasn't sure if he wanted to smile, or weep. Both.

 Oh, Michael. I hope the look on your face was right. I hope I was right.

 Sheridan took a gulp of his drink, made a face as the alcohol seared his tight throat. Hit his empty stomach with a vengeance.

 The look of him. Standing there naked from the waist up. Arms caught behind him, pushing out his chest, gorgeously, artificially erect posture. Sheridan felt himself swallow at the memory. Black collar, black trousers. And only the bare, shivering flesh between. That kiss hadn't been for Michael, for once. It had been for himself. Greedy, allowing himself this one staked claim before relinquishing it, letting go. Watching him walk away, still proudly tall, every muscle on his back standing out in plangent detail.

 And the last look -- desperation, fear. And wonderful, clarion desire. Excitement.

He would have changed his mind at the last moment. Called it off, taken him back, back into his arms, back to his room, back into his bed.

But there was that look. Fearful but so ready. So willing, albeit reluctantly.

 And there was knowledge, too, wasn't there? Michael would enjoy himself. There was no question of that. Richard was a very talented master. It would be most -- enjoyable.

 Knowledge of other things. Knowledge he hadn't shared with Garibaldi.

I had to give you away, Michael. Just for tonight. Just for a while. Because I need an outside perspective. As much as I want you, as much as I feel you want me, I have to be sure. I have to know what is going on in your proud, thick skull. Richard is very good, and part of that is because he is so observant. If there's something there that I've missed --> And he felt the ready stab of anxiety, leaping in his breast. 

"Captain?"

 He jerked around, saw Susan Ivanova's smiling, uncertain face. "Susan," he breathed, and grinned. "Hi."

 "Hi yourself." She leaned against the bar, smile turning inquisitive. "I don't usually see you in here this late," she stated curiously.

"Nightcap." He waggled the glass at her before downing the remaining inch of whiskey. "I was -- restless," he continued, after the Scotch had disappeared.

 "Mm. That I can understand." Ivanova motioned to the bartender. "It feels like a restless night to me," she said suddenly, unexpectedly. "Like anything can happen. Anything at all."

 You have no idea. He forced another smile. "I guess I'll get going," Sheridan stated, pushing himself off the stool. "Early day tomorrow."

 She looked at him for a moment. "Sleep well," she said quietly.

 "I think I will." He blinked at the honesty. "See you tomorrow."

 His quarters seemed abysmally empty. Quiet, as hushed as a church. Sheridan stood in the living area for a moment. Looking around. Feeling the still, the emptiness.

 Sleep was going to be a long time coming. He made himself try to let go of the worry, eternal, a dog with a mysterious, enormous bone. Undressed slowly, not bothering to stow away his clothes but strewing them carelessly on a chair. Lay down.

 And put his hands to his face. Breathed, the smell of Garibaldi on his hands. An echo of him only, warm and suddenly unbearably enticing. What were they doing right now? Hidden away, upstairs, one of the isolated, beautifully furnished chambers. He had no idea. Well, a few ideas, come to think of it. And with the admission images filled his mind. Richard's lean, long-limbed body. Garibaldi's heavier, muscled frame. Naked now, very likely. Beautifully naked.

 He let his own hand trail downward. Grasping the hard, insistent flesh between his legs. He wanted to see. See what they were doing, see the results of Richard's artisan's work. See Michael's face as someone else played him. Someone else wielded the whip, someone else wielded his body. Played the instrument of his desire, wringing sonatas from sweat-damp flesh. Symphonies of pain-raddled pleasure.

 Sheridan closed his eyes. Fixed the picture in his mind. And came, grunting, panting, the vision so clear in his head.

Sleep wasn't so far off, after all.

 

* * *

Morning came horribly early. His computer, informing of his daily appointments. Messages, meetings.

Sheridan rolled over, stretched. And remembered.

 Michael. Oh, Michael.

 He was supposed to meet Richard for an early breakfast. Not just for coffee and a meal, his mind informed him curtly. Getting the low-down skinny, aren't you? Had you forgotten?

 He hadn't.

 It took fifteen minutes to shower and dress. A haphazard swipe of a brush through his hair. Then he was gone.

 He had time for a cup of hot, treacly kaff before he spied Richard Arrington's lanky, familiar form striding toward him. Greetings, the bustle of getting more ersatz coffee, something fairly edible for breakfast.

And then they were seated, and nothing prevented him from asking what he wanted to ask. And a look at Richard's calm face revealed absolutely nothing.

 Sheridan couldn't keep from smiling. "So," he said slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Have fun last night?"

 Richard smiled, carefully. The expression was not particularly friendly. "Oh, quite a lot of fun." The brilliant blue-green eyes glinted in the deflected Zocalo light. "Quite a lot."

 "Good." Sheridan drank a mouthful of kaff, grimaced at the taste. "I admit," he continued more seriously. "I had a moment there, when you led him away..." He smiled again, awkwardly. "I wondered if I'd done the right thing. If he would be okay with this. But he was. Wasn't he?"

 A judicious nod. "After he got used to the idea, yes. He was very much okay." But there was a tense look about his mouth. He looked suddenly pensive.

 "What?" Sheridan's eyes narrowed. "Did something happen?"

 Richard shrugged, but the strained expression didn't ease. "Nothing so much happened," he answered carefully, "as the hint of what could happen."

 "Meaning what?"

 "You were right. He isn't submissive. Not as such." The older man took a judicious sip of his kaff. "What he is, is a masochist. A very pure, very evolved masochist."

 Sheridan blinked. Startled into a smile. "Well, Michael does seem to enjoy the pain a bit," he said after a moment. "But I don't think --"

 "There was a moment, last night." The absolute evenness of Richard's voice stopped him. "A moment, John, when I felt something. Something I've never felt before, in all my years of working with people. The knowledge that I could do anything, and he would not stop me. Up to and including killing him. I could have beaten him until the skin was flayed from his back, and he would have urged me on." The voice was a rapt, stunned whisper. "Anything. And he would have thanked me for it, with his dying breath."

 His face felt suddenly numb. "Richard," Sheridan whispered awkwardly. "He was just in the scene, he was in subspace, it wasn't -"

"No. You're wrong." There was no color in Richard's cheeks at all now. He looked old, and somehow diminished. Sick. "It was as if he wanted to die, John. As if he were looking to me, to kill him. He --" He broke off, brushing at sweat on his upper lip. "This isn't a game for him, John," Richard continued, a quiet hiss of sincerity. "This man wants to die. He wants to be beaten, hit, hurt until he dies of it. And sooner or later he'll find someone who'll do it for him. It's not a game. Not a kink. It's a suicide attempt."

 Sheridan felt his stomach clench, turn over suddenly. Memory, harsh and unbidden and merciless. Garibaldi, the day in his quarters. Just after his release from Medlab, a couple of weeks after Sheridan's arrival. The gun in his hand. The haunted, burning light in his eye.

Suicide. No, Michael, you can't be thinking --

 "It has to stop." He could hardly force words out past the thick terror clogging his throat. Sudden, cloying fear. "I started this, I can end it, I just need to talk to him. Make him see --"

 "John." Richard shook his head slowly, grimly. "And what will you say? That he is endangering himself? That if he continues he will very likely fall into less caring hands than ours? That at some point he will find a person who can turn his wish into reality? Do you really think that will stop him? Is he that capable of self-inspection?"

 Sheridan stared at him for a long moment, words forming, then dying in his throat, unspoken. Finally he nodded once, jerkily. "You're right," he whispered. "He won't listen. He won't be able to. He's been so happy lately, so -- jovial, I never realized, I never thought that the reason was he'd finally found a way to die."

 "Finally?" Richard's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"

 He wanted to stand up, walk away. Walk away from realizing what he had done. What Pandora's box he had opened, and could not shut. Walk away and forget.

 "Michael -- lost someone dear to him not that long ago," he said slowly. "An unexpected transfer, when Michael was injured and didn't know. By the time he woke up, Si -- his friend was gone. And the President's assassination Michael was trying to get information to command when he was shot. He woke up, and -- everything was over. Everything.

 "I went to his quarters, when he was released from the infirmary. I found him with a PPG in his hand. I don't know that he was going to use it on himself. I'm not sure he knew if he would, either. But I think -- I believe he was thinking about it. Seriously."

 "Go to him." Richard's words were immediate, and heart-felt. "Talk to him. This isn't just a reaction to a scene, John. This is something else. Something you've got to stop before -"

 "Before what?" He didn't want to know. Didn't want to know.

 "Before he gets himself killed." The words were brutal, and completely honest. "Before he finds a way to get what he's looking for. The man has a death wish, John. Don't help him fulfill it."

 "Haven't I already?" His mouth tasted bitter, like copper. "I gave it to him. I showed it to him. Haven't I done enough?"

 Richard's hand snapped out, grasping Sheridan's wrist with enough strength to make him cry out in sudden pain. "You can wallow in your own guilt later," the master hissed angrily. A twist of Sheridan's wrist, punctuating the words. "Right now you have someone who needs you. His needs take precedence over your own. Never forget that. If you do, then you are not the man I trained fifteen years ago. Not even close."

 "Yes, sir." A strangled, humiliated whisper. "I understand."

 "Do you? Do you recognize what you've done? I truly hope so. A man's life is at stake. And if he succeeds in fulfilling the fantasy you began, then you will have his fate on your conscience for the rest of your life. However long that might be." The terrible intensity of his voice promised that might not be very long.

 

* * *

He could hardly keep himself from launching into a dead run. That wouldn't do. He couldn't go pelting down corridors without drawing attention. Unwelcome attention. He forced himself to settle for a rapid, meter-eating walk.

 He hadn't even checked in on Michael yet. Sheridan gritted his teeth, heard a curse escape his clenched lips. Richard hadn't hurt him, he knew he wouldn't hurt him, and so he'd thought everything was okay, he thought leave well enough alone, Michael would be around later, they'd talk, everything would be --

 Everything would be what? Fine? As if Richard could, by the very fact of his presence, make everything all right? Richard was talented, Richard was kind. But Richard was only human. He didn't know Garibaldi, and yet he'd seen something that had been right under Sheridan's nose, right there in living Technicolor, and now what?

 Sheridan darted into the lift. Cursed under his breath at the interminable journey to the residential level. Was already squeezing out the doors before they had even properly opened. Letting himself jog a little, now. The anxiety was too much. Throbbing in his ears, the sound of his pulse like the beating of a single, maddening drum.

 He skidded to a halt in front of Garibaldi's quarters, and rang the bell with a finger that shook like an old man's. And waited.

 Don't do anything stupid, Michael. Don't have hurt yourself. Please, dear sweet God, don't let me have let this go until it's too late. Let him be okay, let him be safe, from me, from himself

 The door hissed open. And Michael Garibaldi squinted at him, smiling tiredly. "Hey," he rasped, and cleared his throat. "Jo -- Captain. What can I do for you?"

 He brushed past him, propelled into the room, whirling to stand on the balls of his feet. Combined terror and anger, making him feel slightly sick at his stomach. "You -- You're all right," Sheridan breathed. His voice broke on the last word. "You're okay. Tell me you're okay, Michael."

 Garibaldi touched the control to close the door, turned to stare somewhat suspiciously at him. Head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. "I'm fine, John," he replied slowly. "What's going on?"

 He could only stare for a moment, a thousand replies flying through his brain, shattering to incoherent fragments. And then pent-up breath exploded from his lungs, a vast sigh of relief, of embarrassment. He let himself sag onto the couch, closing his eyes.

 A weight next to him. The feeling of another body, close by. "What's going on, John?" Garibaldi repeated, very softly. "I'm fine. Everything's fine. Why so worried?"

 Sheridan nodded slowly. Composing himself. "I'm sorry for barging in on you like this," he began, stumbling. "I just -- overreacted. That's all."

 A quiet chuckle made him whip around, to stare at his companion. "I'll say." Garibaldi was grinning. Some strange combination of satisfaction and concern in his clear blue eyes. "But hey, John, it was your idea. I can't help it if you had second thoughts. You didn't give me a chance to do anything."

 "You're right." He couldn't find any more words, for the moment. Too many questions. Too much, overload.

 Garibaldi hauled himself to his feet. Moving slowly, obviously tired. But that was to be expected, right? Nothing wrong there. "You want some coffee?" he asked over his shoulder, moving into the tiny kitchen. "I just made a pot."

 "That would be good. Thank you."

 The quick flash of another smile. "Don't think I made it for you," Garibaldi said wryly. "I gotta get to work soon. This is my second."

 He waited. Let Garibaldi give him a steaming mug of coffee. Drank, and welcomed the burn on his tongue.

 "I have to get dressed." Garibaldi sounded apologetic. Nervous. Distant? "Is there I mean, I don't --" He broke off, clearly rattled.

 "I won't keep you," Sheridan blurted. Smiling unhappily. "I just wanted to -- check in with you. See how you were doing." You look fine, but are you? What are you hiding from me, Michael?

 The blue eyes danced away from him. "I'm fine, John." Brief, sincere words. But skittish. "It was -- interesting. I'll say that much."

 "And you enjoyed it? Richard?"

 A shrug. "Sure. You know I did." A deep flush crept up Garibaldi's cheeks.

 Say it. Don't waltz around the issue, Johnny boy. Tell him what Richard said, and get this out in the open. There's no time like right now.

 "Michael." He heard the strangled sound of his own voice, saw how it caught Garibaldi's attention, too. Drawing the blue eyes back to his own. He tried for a smile. "I want to talk to you about something. Would you sit down?"

 "I'm in a hurry." Stiffly. "I really don't -"

 "It'll only take a few minutes. But it's important, Michael. It can't wait."

 Garibaldi paused, and then sat down on the chair next to the couch. Distance. Not the closeness that Sheridan suddenly craved. Wanted to feel Garibaldi's sturdy, utterly human solidity. Reassure himself.

 "I talked to Richard this morning." Fear colored his words, jagged shades of jolting red. "He told me some pretty interesting things."

 "Interesting." There was no curiosity in Garibaldi's flat, emotionless voice.

Sheridan nodded slowly. "Michael, do you know why I had Richard visit me? Come all the way here, for one night?"

 A brief headshake. Averted eyes. "I had him come," Sheridan continued in the same slow, careful voice, "because I'm worried about you. Because I have had the feeling for some time now that there's more going on here than I know about. I trust Richard. I know him very, very well, Michael. Nothing gets by him. Nothing." He swallowed dryly. "And he sees it, too. He sees it."

 He watched Garibaldi chew on the inside of his lip for a moment. "Sees what?" came the eventual, dull reply.

 "That this is something other than a kink for you, Michael." Sheridan fought to keep his voice from cracking, from wailing words that would be too close, too intense. "This -- obsession you have with pain. Lots of people get into pain, but you --" He cleared his throat roughly. "For you it's all you want, isn't it? Really? More and more pain, until it's enough. Enough to satisfy you."

 Garibaldi launched himself to his feet. Walking over to open his closet door, rummage busily. "John, I really don't have time for this." A blunt, coldly professional voice. As distant as winter.

"Do you want to die, Michael?" Sheridan stood carefully, fear suddenly vying with anger for control. He stared intently, until the unwilling gaze turned once more in his direction. "Is that it? Do you really do this not because you like it, but because it's a means to an end? To getting something you're afraid of doing yourself?"

 "Get out." Words suddenly hissing with anger. And pain. "I don't have to listen to this. Even if it does come from the high-and-mighty Captain Sheridan. Get out."

 Sheridan felt himself smiling. Furiously. "I've done everything I can think of, Michael," he enunciated crisply. Wanting to weep at the cold anger in his own voice. "And you've gotten the better of me every time. Playing me like a violin. You haven't been honest. Not one time. Not with me. Not with yourself." He watched the high color drain out of Garibaldi's cheeks, like red wine from a pale carafe. "You want to die? Fine. Then kill yourself. But don't make me part of this. You understand? You do whatever you need to do. But you can count me out."

 The security chief had gone horribly white. "John," he said suddenly. Weakly.

 "There's one last bit of control you can't take away from me, Michael." Triumphant. Even as he felt tears burning behind his hot dry eyes. "And that's what I do. I won't do this any more. I won't be a part of it. Whatever's going on with you, you won't tell me. And I can't keep guessing. Guessing until I figure out that you've tricked me into hurting you so badly I can't forgive you, or myself. I can stop this. Right here, right now."

 A moment's shocked silence. His own words, reverberating in the hushed room. A moment to stare at Garibaldi's pasty face. Hear the pounding of his own heart.

 "Fine." Flatly, meant to be flippant. Not in the least successful. Garibaldi looked down, away. "Do what you have to do, Captain. I don't care."

 Without hesitation he was at Garibaldi's side. Grasping both the man's wrists, twisting in one last, agonized grip. "Don't you care, Michael?" Sobbing, honest words. "Underneath all this don't you really care? Or do you really want to die? I don't want you to die, Michael. But I want to hear you say *you* don't want it, either." He pulled Garibaldi up close, ignoring the way the man shrank from his searing, imploring gaze. "Tell me you don't want to die, Michael," Sheridan hissed, more focused than he thought he had ever felt in his life. "Just tell me, and make me believe you. Can you tell me just that much?"

 The blue eyes rose slowly to meet his own. And Sheridan wanted to weep, again, at the sere, blasted emptiness there. Nothing. No emotion. No fear, no remorse. Only barrenness. A bitter, humorless half-smile, turning Garibaldi's handsome face into a mask of ice. "Get out," he whispered, and the venom in his voice was like the lash of the whip. "Get out now, *Captain.*"

 Sheridan dropped the arms he held, and watched as Garibaldi staggered back. The sound of tortured, tense breathing.

 "I'll be watching you." He smiled briefly. "You'll be under my microscope, Mr. Garibaldi. Every day. Until you can be honest, and you can prove to me that you are not a danger to yourself. When you feel like you can finally talk, you'll know where to find me. Right behind you. Twenty-four hours a day."

 He didn't wait for a reply. Turned on his heel, strode to the door. Out, into the echoing cool hallway.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**    
 _E vegno in parte ove non è che luca._

And to a place I come where nothing shines.

 

* * *

The chrysanthemum was dying.

 He noticed it on his way to work that morning. He had never really paid much attention to it before. Just another potted plant, surviving in the artificial Babylon 5 environment as well as all the others. Sitting outside a clothier's, gay in a painted blue pot. He walked by every day, and the plant was part of the scenery. Like the people, and the shops, the noise and the smells. A small, stubbornly human icon.

 But today, the round, butter-yellow flowers were gone. And the leaves were sadly browned.

 Garibaldi slowed, frowning. He didn't know a thing about plants. Didn't normally give a crap anyway. But something was different today. The pale, wasted plant seemed oddly sad.

 He veered to the side, to have a closer look. Sick? He knelt, reaching out to touch one crisp gray-brown leaf. It crumbled under his fingers. Either one fast mum-bug, or something had been done to it. A drink dumped inside, maybe. Something.

 "Morning, Chief."

He looked up, smiled at the bluff, red-faced human standing over him. "Morning, Hank. How's business?" Garibaldi stood, brushing his hands on his jacket.

 A gruff shrug. "I'd say I can't complain." Winking slowly. "But actually I could. Could be worse, I suppose. Saw you looking at Gertie."

 Garibaldi blinked. "Gertie?"

 "The plant." The merchant made a brief gesture at the dying chrysanthemum. "Lena's idea, to put something green and growing outside. Not like we sell plants or anything, but she thought it perked up the place. She was right, too."

 Garibaldi nodded slowly. "Well, Hank," he replied, after a brief, regretful pause. "I think maybe Gertie's about to check out and head on up to the Big Garden in the Sky."

 "Looks like it. Not quite gone yet. She's still got a little green on her." Hank bent to pick up the pot, knees popping like rifle shots. "But she'd need a lot of TLC. Sunshine, or something. I don't know what. Lena always took care of the plants."

 Garibaldi didn't miss the sadness in the old man's words. It had only been six weeks since Lena passed along, quietly, in her sleep. It was still strange, not to see her wrinkled, smiling prune of a face on his rounds. The shop sold a few imported Earth delicacies, in addition to their primary clothing line, and Lena had more than once managed to get specialty items for Garibaldi's cooking use. Truffles. White chocolate. Shitake mushrooms and brandied chestnuts. Expensive, but he knew for a fact she'd always charged him cost. His pleasure at getting them seemed profit enough to her.

 He reached out and grasped Hank's bony shoulder briefly. "Give Gertie to me," he said, surprised at his own words. "I mean, I don't know a thing about plants. Dunno if I have a green thumb or a black one. But I'll enlist a little help. See if I can't get her back in shape for you. Sound good?"

 There was the hint of moisture in the clothier's eyes, as he handed over the straggly plant. "Better than her sitting out here just dying," he rasped, smiling tremulously. "Thanks, Chief. I appreciate that."

 "No problem, Hank. No promises, mind you," Garibaldi added quickly. "But I'll give it my best shot."

 He carried the plant on his hip, earning an odd look from his aide on the way into his office. Well, it probably did look a little strange. Chief of Security, with a dead flower cradled like a baby in his arms. Garibaldi shrugged to himself. So? It was a strange galaxy. Deal with it.

 He put Gertie on a shelf in his office, and watered it. Rewarded with a shower of crispy leaves. Great, he thought glumly. Finish dying, why don't you? Not like I know shit about plants, anyway.

 A neat stack of report crystals lay on his desk. The blink of new messages on the board. Another day, another credit. Nothing at all new about any of it. Old news.

 He keyed for his messages, and leaned back in his chair to listen. G'Kar, complaining about something. Londo, complaining about something. Complaints. That seemed to be the extent of things these days.

 When the messages ended, he remained as he was. Leaning back, considering moving. Getting to work. He was tired. It all seemed suddenly terribly pointless. One day blending into another, the same work, the same complaints, the same murders and thefts and petty cons gone wrong. What difference would another five minutes make?

 "Taking an nap, Mr. Garibaldi? A little early in the day, isn't it?"

 Garibaldi shot up in his chair. The tidy pile of chips tumbled over as he put out a hand to steady himself. "You're looking perky," he grated, smiling bitterly. "What? Get a new orange crop this morning?" Sheridan was also smiling. Perfect, immaculate, shipshape smile. Completely professional. Completely infuriating. "You know me, Mr. Garibaldi," he continued, walking over to stand before the wide desk, leaning his hip against the edge. "I like to check in with my senior officers. See how things are going. Just -- keeping my finger on the station pulse, if you will."

 "Oh, is that what it is?" Garibaldi barked a laugh, sharp and short. "Well, it's a relief to know you're so on top of things, sir. Just makes me feel all warm inside."

 God, did the man have a plascrete heart? Still smiling, no fucking reaction whatsoever. "If you haven't got anything to report," Sheridan stated, stressing the last word a bit, "I'll let you get back to your duties." He turned crisply, the click of his boots loud and echoing on the metal floor.

 Bastard. Garibaldi watched the door close behind Sheridan, leaving him alone. Again. Every time I turn around I see your face. Watching me. At breakfast. Lunch. Meetings, or just walking the fucking hallways. Everywhere.

 It was driving him insane. There hadn't been a moment, since that morning two weeks ago in Garibaldi's quarters, that Sheridan hadn't made his presence known. Sometimes subtle, happenstance meetings, the smiling, perfect greeting in the Zocalo. Sometimes not anything like subtle. Like just now.

 What are you waiting for, Sheridan? For me to crack? Is that it? Well, fuck you. Fuck you.

 Garibaldi reached out to grab a report crystal. Slammed it into the readout slot with a lot more strength than necessary. He forced his eyes to gaze at data, words dribbling meaninglessly down the screen.

 You can watch all you like, Captain Sheridan, Sir, he thought icily. But if I want to do something I don't want you to know about, you can be damn sure you won't know. I've played that game before. And I've never lost yet.

 

* * *

The call came late in the day. Zack, sounding tense and a little scared. "Chief. We got a situation down on Gray Level. Think you'd better come have a look."

 Garibaldi eyed his computer screen wryly. "On my way, Zack."

Anything but another B&E. Something interesting this time? Please?

 He had cause to reflect on that train of thought later. And regret it.

 By the time he arrived at Gray Level, he was primed. Ready for something, anything. Itching for something new. And he found it. Zack's pale face, set in lines of disgust. "Looks like a murder, Chief. And not a very nice one," the second added tightly.

 Garibaldi gave him a scathing look. "And there's such a thing as a 'nice' murder, Zack? None of them are 'nice.'"

 The dry words didn't seem to affect Zack at all. "Maybe not," he agreed quietly. "But this one is definitely meaner than most. At least the ones I've seen."

 Despite himself he was interested. Zack wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box, but he was no slacker, either, and he'd seen a lot of weird shit in his time on Garibaldi's team. Not much fazed him. If he was this shaken, there had to be something extra going on.

 All too soon, Garibaldi found out what that was.

 He stared down at the body, and felt his stomach turn once, heavily. "Lovely," he whispered, exchanging a horrified glance with Zack, who only nodded mutely.

 The girl was -- had been -- young. Maybe sixteen, seventeen. Pretty face, what was left of it. If you looked past the bruises, and the broken jaw, canting off to the side. Or the red messy place where her left ear had been.

 Naked. Beaten. Whipped. His eye knew what to look for. This had been torture, and it had probably happened before death, if the frozen agonized leer of her dead eyes was any indication. Franklin could say for sure, later.

The cause of death? Garibaldi felt his lips pull back from his teeth, grimacing faintly. Could have been strangulation: the fingermarks around her neck were plain enough. The hands of the same person who'd done the thing that was a much more likely candidate for cause of death. Garibaldi cursed under his breath. He'd heard of spiking before. He'd never seen it. Never wanted to, and didn't want to see it now. He turned away with relief.

 "We swept the scene." Zack sounded a little calmer, now that Garibaldi was here. "I've already sent everything for analysis. The rest is up to Franklin, I guess."

 "Yeah. You called him?"

 "On his way."

 Garibaldi nodded slowly. Took a few steps away.

 You wanted something different. How about this, Mike? Teenage girl with a six-foot pole shoved up her vagina and coming out her chest different enough for you? Hmm?

 He felt vaguely sick again.

 Franklin took charge of the body when he arrived a few minutes later. The dead girl disappeared inside a plain black bodybag, and was whisked away. There was really nothing left but wrapup. Garibaldi pulled Zack to the side and gave him a grim look. "I don't suppose we'd be lucky enough to find any witnesses hanging around, would we?"

 Allan shrugged. "If we do, you'd be the first to know, Chief."

 "Yeah, well, it'd be too much to ask." Garibaldi snorted heavily. "All right, then. We'll wait for forensics. In the meantime, let's find out who this girl was. Who she hung out with, who her significant other was. Anything."

 

* * *

By the next day he was aware that his interest had become something else. Something that had quite some time ago passed mere professional interest and dedication, and entered the realm of obsession. Personal, painful, and all-encompassing.

 Garibaldi eyed the pile of reports, data flimsies, medical reports on his desk. He no longer needed to check anything. Had it all memorized. Flash-fried into his brain.

The reports had come in last night. The girl's name was Charity. No family name, no EA ident number. No distinguishing factors that could separate her from countless other lost souls who wandered through Babylon 5. Until two days ago she had worked as a waitress in a tiny Downbelow bar. Questions hadn't produced anything. Garibaldi had spent the better part of three hours this morning buttonholing the owner, the manager, the staff, what clientele he could find. Nothing. Charity was new, Charity didn't have any friends, Charity kept to herself. No drug problems that anyone knew about. She was on time for work, she worked hard, she cashed her paychits regularly. She didn't talk much.

Charity No-Last-Name had floated in, and floated out again, and no one cared. Just a pretty face, one of a thousand, a million anonymous pretty faces. No friends, no enemies. No past, and now no future. Nothing Garibaldi could turn up explained her death, or answered anything about who could have done it. It was a mystery he didn't know how to solve, officially. Unofficially? Well, there were a few possibilities.

 He took out the morgue stills, and studied them one more time. It had definitely been the pole that had killed her. Perforated nearly every internal organ. She had been dying before it reached her heart, staking it as cleanly as a fictional vampire hunter's. She had been sexually abused before her death, multiple penetrations and from appearances, not all of those penile. Perhaps none of them. There was no trace of semen in any of her bodily orifices. As a precaution - or perhaps merely as another more baroque torture - every orifice had been flushed with a corrosive cleaning agent, one Franklin identified as a substance normally used by docking crews and mechanics, for biological contamination. The body had been scrubbed as well. There were no recognizable DNA fragments, foreign skin particles, or other identifying markers. The pole was ordinary nupine, not even real wood but a plas facsimile. It was as clean as the body. Made in a factory on Mars, available just about any place that sold building materials.

 No tangible leads, no clues that led anywhere. But there were clues to be found.

The strangulation. It hadn't killed her. Had in fact apparently been done some time before the moment of death, up to two hours beforehand. Her brain showed tiny lesions, indicating a fairly significant time frame during which she had been deprived of oxygen. But not enough to kill her.

 There were marks on her wrists and ankles. As clean and unrevealing of clues as anything else, but noticeable. She had been restrained; the lack of organic fibers in the deep cuts, while possibly due to the intensive cleaning process, might also indicate not rope, but metal restraints.

Puncture marks in the genitalia. Franklin suspected intravenous drugs, but no trace of any foreign substance had been found. More needle marks in the breast tissue, although the removal of the nipples made any real conclusions difficult.

 But there was one sign that made immediate sense. Bells and whistles time. Charity with no last name had been whipped. Not beaten: there were no signs of bruising made by fists. From torso to mid-thigh, her skin was crisscrossed with distinctive whip marks.

 Garibaldi let the photos drop back on the desk. Sighed, and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

You gave the impression you were a very nice, quiet good girl, Charity. But you weren't. You had a kink hidden behind your pretty face. And I think you met someone who got a little rougher than you planned. Someone who maybe tricked you into going with them, and once he had you tied up just went to town. Maybe at first you were okay with it. Playing with whips and needles. Even a little autoerotic asphyxiation, for giggles. But then he started doing things that weren't part of the game plan, and there wasn't anything you could do to stop him. By the time you realized you'd gone off with a sadist, he was already well on the way to killing you.

 He swept up the reports and photos, and stowed them in a desk drawer. Preliminary report would be pretty incomplete. No way he could prove his thoughts. He could postulate a theory, but a theory it would remain. Until he had more evidence. He could keep asking questions, but it wouldn't go anywhere. He didn't have anything: no blood, no drugs, no DNA, nothing. All he had was a theory, that would stand up under scrutiny about as well as a smoke ring in the air.

 

* * *

He had waited until off-hours before pursuing the thin thread of curiosity. Now, dressed in mufti and feeling as anonymous as he ever did on-station, he was ready to start.

 There was only one place to go, to his knowledge. Whether or not Charity had been a patron, he had no idea. But it was the only place he could think of, to begin.

 It felt surpassingly odd to go back to the club. Back to the tiny anteroom, without Sheridan at his side. He flinched as a memory darted into his head: a toothy grin, a kiss that had left him gasping and angry and flushed with excitement. He felt suddenly obscurely lonely.

 The same Narn doorman stood waiting. Impassive, unimpressed. Garibaldi didn't smile with recognition. "Evening," he said cordially.

 A slow nod. The scarlet eyes were completely unreadable. He'd passed muster once, but that was with Sheridan along for the ride. This time? This time he had his own game plan.

 "Mr. Garibaldi. A pleasure to see you again." The Narn didn't bother making his own voice any friendlier than Garibaldi's. "And an unexpected one. How may I help you?"

 "I'm looking for someone. Someone who might have known a friend of mine."

 "Who is your friend?"

 Now Garibaldi did smile, minutely. "Was," he corrected evenly. "She's dead. She was murdered two days ago."

 The Narn blinked slowly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

 "Yeah." Garibaldi's smile widened. "But she used to hang out here. I thought I'd check it out. You don't mind, do you?"

 "This is a private club, Mr. Garibaldi."

 "Understood. But this, my friend, is official business. Not a social call." He felt his grin tighten, until it felt painted on his face. "Just a few questions, and I'm out of your hair." He glanced at the Narn's spotted, bald pate. "Or the equivalent," he added after a pause.

 A courteous, utterly sociable smile suddenly appeared on the doorman's face. "Due to the nature of our business, Mr. Garibaldi, I'm sure you will understand when I tell you that our clients have no wish to be questioned." A sly light in the narrow eyes. "Or perhaps, even to be identified. Wouldn't you agree?"

 "Be that as it may," Garibaldi lumbered on, "I think I'm going to have to insist."

 "I don't think -"

 "I'm not asking you to think. I'm telling you to comply, or suffer the consequences." He raised his eyebrows. "Of course it's up to you. The way I see it, we can do this one of two ways. You can let me in, and I'll ask a few questions, and be on my merry way. No fuss, no muss. Or I can call down a tactical team, blow the shit out of your nice heavy door there, arrest everyone inside and interrogate them once we get back to the station house." He grinned, feeling oddly jovial. "So you've got the easy way, or the hard way. Either way I get what I want. Only difference is, if we do this the easy way, you don't lose out. You with me so far?"

 The Narn's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Then he smiled, this time with something like disgust. "If I let you in, in your official capacity, Mr. Garibaldi, I am violating more principles than you could possibly imagine."

 "Worried about job security, eh? Well, if I'm any guess, this conversation is being recorded right now." A subtle widening of eyes told him he was right. No surprise. He'd have done the same. "And when your bosses see that tape, they'll realize that you saved them a hell of a lot of embarrassment by doing what I ask. The lady or the tiger. What's it gonna be?"

 The doorman gave him a confused blink. "I cannot say I understand your reference. But perhaps you are correct. If I agree to allow you entrance, will you in turn agree to make as little of a spectacle of yourself as possible?"

 "They'll never even know I was here."

 The Narn snorted softly. "That, Mr. Garibaldi, I seriously doubt." A pause, and then a sigh. "You give me very little choice."

 "We call it being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Sucks, doesn't it?"

 Something almost like a smile crossed the Narn's chiseled face. "G'Quan called it the hammer and the stone."

 "Works for me. We gonna sit here chatting all night, or you gonna let me in and get this over with?"

 The brief flash of humor was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared. "A few minutes, Mr. Garibaldi. No more. Do we understand one another?"

 "Implicitly."

 The Narn looked mournful as he keyed in something on the inner door's security pad. Another moment, and Garibaldi was inside.

 It looked different tonight, somehow. Less forbidding, more like what it really was, at least on this level. A bar, a club, a meeting place. The light seemed brighter, the music louder and more driving. Garibaldi paused by the entrance, and fought down a shiver of more memory. But the staircase looked the same, didn't it? And now he knew quite well what lay at the top of that flight of spiraling stairs. He knew a room, and the feel of thick carpet under his bare feet. The sound of a door closing, and the shock of capture.

 He shook his head once, roughly, and walked inside. There were quite a few people here, none of whom he recognized. No surprise there; he'd hardly been scoping it out earlier with any kind of level head. Now he wished, briefly, that he had been a little less aroused, and a little more observant, that first visit. Might have helped him tonight.

 He made for the bar to his right, a curving, alarmingly expensive affair of real wood and brass. Other than the occasional idle glance, no one seemed to be paying much attention to him. There was a dancer, moving with gorgeous precision on what appeared to be a tiny stage, at the opposite end of the room. She was doing a nice job of distracting attention away from him. He thanked her silently.

 He ordered tonic water, and chose a table at random. Set his drink down and had a look around.

 Had Charity ever come here? It was possible. It was equally likely that she'd never darkened the doorway, and he was putting himself through this particular ordeal for nothing. Time would tell.

 It appeared that this evening's clientele was a varied lot, to put it mildly. Even during his previous visit, Garibaldi hadn't learned very much about the place. Now, with the clarity of a case to consider, he saw a lot more. Not a lot of overt signs. A collar here, a leather skirt there. No one kneeling as he had done, or led around on a leash. Very civil. The sound of laughter, and one couple kissing at a table nearby, drawing his greedy eye and holding it far longer than he preferred.

 He had no plan, in particular. He could spend all night sitting here, waiting for something to come up. A part of him -- the affronted peacekeeper part -- was impatient for answers, itching for movement. But another part was quieter. Patient, counseling stillness, concentration. He wasn't sure what part that was, but he rather thought it was correct. No bull in the china shop action tonight, Mikey. Cool and collected, that's the ticket.

 He watched the dancer, and the two that followed her. Applauded sincerely at the performances. He worked at drinking his tonic, and studied people surreptitiously. After a half-hour's survey he found himself gritting his teeth tightly. This was going exactly nowhere. If only murderers would be so kind as to wear some sort of subtle identifying ornament. Perhaps a flashing neon sign above their heads. Warning: I just killed someone. That would do handily.

 "Sir?"

 The waitperson's level voice startled him more than he liked. Garibaldi whipped around, sloshing the remaining inch of liquid in his glass onto the tabletop. "Sorry, sir," the woman continued evenly, smiling. "Didn't mean to startle you." He set another glass in front of Garibaldi.

 "What's that?" Garibaldi asked bluntly. Something amber and horrifyingly enticing.

 "Compliments of the lady." When Garibaldi continued to look at her, the woman made a gesture to her left.

 The lady. The lady in severest black. Toasting him now, with a slim glass in her hand.

 The lady his fumbling brain recognized.

 "Thanks," Garibaldi muttered.

 There was nothing for it. His cover, however minuscule to begin with, was now officially blown into a million tattered bits.

 Garibaldi picked up the glass and sniffed the contents. Oh, good bourbon. The best. His mouth watered immediately.

 She was sitting not too far away, alone, near the cheerfully bubbling fountain. Garibaldi pushed himself back from his table, taking the glass with him. Paid for, after all. No use wasting it.

 She smiled at his approach. A broad, pleased smile that made him want to down this particular measure of alcohol and order a dozen to follow. "Mr. Garibaldi. What a surprise to see you here." She made a gesture at the opposite chair. "Please, join me?"

 "Susie," he murmured, and forced something like a smile. Sat down uneasily.

 Zsuzsa Szeci was a formidable woman, even when seen in her customary domicile, the diplomatic business office. She might be called an administrative assistant, but those in the know had no illusions about her. She was the person you had to go through before anything official could happen. Possessed of an unholy intelligence, and the instincts of a hunting shark. There had been more than one occasion when Garibaldi had had to match wits with her, in an official capacity. And had the scarred ego to prove it.

 He knew her in business suits. All starched collars and knife-blade creases, topped with immaculate pearls. This, now. This was different. Different enough to make his eyes widen in spite of himself.

 Szeci wasn't a particularly young woman. She defied her age well, that was true. Without any obvious bodmods that he could determine. But she would not see forty again. It didn't seem to matter to her. And it certainly didn't seem a disadvantage now. She wore a black dress, something velvety looking and clinging to every curve. Curve? Susie the martinet had curves? The Wicked Witch of Green Sector had a figure?

 "So what brings you to this particular den of iniquity?" Szeci sipped delicately from her own glass, eyes trained with uncomfortable keenness on Garibaldi.

 He made himself shrug. "Out and about," he answered idly. "Thanks for the drink."

 "But you haven't drunk it. Not your poison?"

 "In time." His eyes narrowed. "Speaking of iniquity, I could ask you the same question."

 She granted him a laugh, low and smoky. "I can tell you're new here," she replied gaily. "Or you'd know this is a frequent stopover for me. You're the new face here, not I. Although," she added with a smirk, "I do remember seeing you here one time. A few weeks ago?"

 He felt his face suddenly blaze with heat. "Oh, really," he rasped shortly.

"Yes, really." Szeci leaned forward a bit, revealing a glimpse of a rather stunning decolletage. Her smile seemed suddenly more secretive, and much more personal. "With the charming Captain Sheridan. And I must say, in a much more -- pleasing outfit than the one you're wearing now."

 "Well, you know what they say, Susie. Clothes don't always make the man."

 He watched her expression falter, a brief cloud of displeasure surging in her eyes. She hated that nickname. Precisely why he used it. "So where is your paramour this evening, Chief?" Szeci asked with a familiar kind of acid asperity. "Stag night, is it?"

 "Not exactly." Garibaldi smiled thinly. "More of a professional excursion this time."

 "Oh? Well, now that does sound interesting." Szeci glanced around, and then leaned forward again, much closer this time. "And out of uniform. Are you perhaps -- undercover?" she whispered, exaggerating the last word.

 "No," Garibaldi replied steadily. "So, Susie. Come here often, do you?"

 She recoiled a little, bladed smile fading to a look of faint distaste. "Don't fuck with me, Garibaldi," she hissed in a low voice. He felt vaguely relieved: a cheerful smiling Zsuzsa was quite a bit more frightening than a nasty ill-tempered one. At least the bitchy persona was familiar. "I won't sit here and be interrogated. Just try it."

 He put a hand up and shook his head vigorously. "Hey, don't get all bent out of shape on me, okay? You're not under investigation." He grinned tightly. "If you were, I promise we'd be having this conversation on my territory, not yours."

 Her blink conceded him a point. "All right." Reluctance, quickly covered by a brittle smile. Regretting her previous largesse with the bourbon? He didn't particularly care.

"But now that you mention it, I do have one question for you."

 Szeci's wary glance raked over him again. "You can ask," she said icily. "I don't promise an answer."

 "Fine. Isn't like you're under oath. I'm looking for friends of a friend. A woman named Charity. Know her?"

 "Charity." Szeci took a deliberate slow sip of her drink. "I know the name. We weren't friends, though. I hardly knew her."

 Garibaldi leaned forward a little. "Then she did come here," he breathed.

 "It sounds rather as if you're surprised by that, Mr. Garibaldi. Are you?"

 He paused, and shrugged. "Under the circumstances, no. Not really."

 "Well," Szeci continued, airily, "as I said, I didn't know her well. She's the little sub that got herself killed a few days ago, isn't she?"

 "Got herself killed?" Garibaldi stared at her. "What do you mean?"

 Zsuzsa Szeci had extremely dark eyes, he noted distantly. Black. As gleamingly unrevealing as obsidian. "Nothing," she murmured, unblinking. "Nothing at all."

 He blew a sigh of frustration, and leaned back in his chair. "Talk to me, Susie," he ground tiredly. "Who'd she hang with? Who knew her? You know something, you better spill it. Or maybe we'll take a little spin by the station house after all."

 She didn't seem alarmed by his words. On the contrary, a tiny, flickering smile played at the corners of her red-painted mouth. "I'm hiding nothing, Mr. Garibaldi," Szeci murmured. "I don't know anything else, for certain. But there is, perhaps, someone who does."

 "Who?"

 White teeth gleamed in a sudden smile. "Her name is Berent Collins. She is -- that is, she used to be a regular patron here at the club. She works for Stellar Microsystems, as a program analyst. She might be able to tell you an interesting story."

 Damn this woman and her maneuvering. "What kind of story?"

 Szeci shook her head quickly. "That I can't tell you. Not because I won't, but because I honestly don't know. Rumors, speculation. Nothing concrete. And, unless I miss my guess," she drawled easily, "you don't put much stock in rumors."

 "No. Not as a rule. But when that's all I've got -- well, the rules have a tendency to change."

 "Indeed." Szeci drained her glass suddenly, and a pink tongue emerged to lick her lips slowly. "Well, Mr. Garibaldi, it has been an -- interesting discussion." She smiled briefly. "But now I'm afraid I must toddle off. Plans and all." She collected a tiny beaded bag, and stood, waiting until he stood as well before pushing her chair in and walking around the table to his side. "And," she continued in a much quieter voice, "remember. If you should ever tire of Captain Sheridan's -- attentions, I'm certain I could find many ways of keeping you occupied." She flicked a nail across his cheek, making him flinch involuntarily, and then laughed smokily.

 Oh, Michael, he thought, as he watched her walk away. Graceful sway of hips, confident stride. Every time you turn around these days, you find a surprise. Wonder what's behind door number two?

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**    
He rang the door buzzer, and took a step back, waiting.

 It wasn't that late yet. Well, late, but not too late. Besides, this was official business. He'd left the uniform at home, but he had his ident card. A quick jog past the office to find out where Berent Collins lived. And now here he was, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, feeling the tingle of an excitement he understood so well he hardly recognized it as such, any more. The thrill of the chase. The first thread of a tangible clue. He felt hugely, vibrantly alive.

 Collins was a cautious sort, apparently. Using the comm to ask who was at the door. Well, it made sense. Garibaldi's hastily generated report on the woman stated she lived alone, in a nice, comparatively quiet Blue level. Mostly civilian employees around here: early to bed, early to rise. He wasn't personally sure of the healthy, and he knew no one around here was precisely wealthy. Wise? Didn't seem as if Ms. Collins had been, particularly. At least not a while back.

 "Michael Garibaldi, Ms. Collins," he spoke evenly into thin air. "Babylon 5 Security. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

 She didn't reply immediately. He had time to wonder if she'd decided to ignore him, and then consider how to convince her without using any kind of more official force, when the door slid quietly open.

 He drew a breath to speak, explain why he was here. But he never actually said the words.

 Berent Collins wasn't really beautiful. Pretty, yes, pale hair that fell straight and shining over one shoulder. Pale eyes to match, no makeup, a clean, scrubbed face with no pretense. It wasn't beauty that gave her allure, that made him stare so blatantly. It was the air of fragility, the sense that this was some delicate creature that would shatter at the sound of his voice, crumple and wither if he were to reach out and touch her slim shoulder.

 "Mr. Garibaldi." Collins' voice was stolid, a strange contrast with her delicate appearance. She looked steadily at him, without emotion. "I've been expecting you."

 "You have?" He couldn't hide his surprise.

 "You might as well come inside."

 A minute later he was perched on the edge of an uncomfortable couch, trying to find whatever it was he wanted to say. Collins sat opposite him, a tiny yet oddly regal figure. She smiled at him tiredly. "I should offer you something to drink, shouldn't I?" she asked, her smile fading. "I'm sorry, I've gotten out of practice with the social graces."

 "Nothing to drink, thanks." Garibaldi cleared his throat roughly. "Ms. Collins, you said you'd been expecting me. What did you mean by that?"

 She looked down at her hands, lying limply on her thighs. "I heard about the murder. I thought -- I just thought perhaps you would ask me questions."

 "About?"

 He watched her swallow. "About him," she whispered almost inaudibly.

 "Are you saying you know who the murderer is?" His voice sounded harsh to his own ears. "Can you identify him?"

 "I'm not sure." She glanced up quickly, and then away again. "I don't know anything, Mr. Garibaldi. Nothing for sure. I just --" She broke off, and put a hand to one suddenly red cheek.

 "Did you see anything? Ms. Collins, if you know something you're not --"

 "I know what happened to Charity." Collins' voice sounded leaden suddenly. She still did not look directly at him. "I know what he did to her. I know."

 "Who? What who did to her?"

 She bit her lip, and shook her head slowly.

Okay. He'd questioned scared people before. And there was no question this woman was scared. If what had happened to Charity was any indication, and if Collins did know the person who did it, then she had every right to be scared. Slow down, Mike. Stop pushing, and let her tell the kind of story she needs to tell. Don't get her up against the wall. Relax and she'll say it, eventually.

 "Berent." That caught her attention; the watery blue eyes flickered reluctantly up. "That's an unusual name. Do you mind if I call you Berent?"

 She sighed. "Not at all." A brief, reluctant smile. "I always hated 'Ms. Collins.' I keep thinking you're talking about my mother."

 He nodded, grinning. "Berent," he continued as gently as he could, "I'm not here to investigate you. Do you understand that?" He waited for her slow nod. "I'm here because I think you may know something, that could help me find Charity's killer. I think you may have met the man who did it. I think you think so, too. Isn't that why you were expecting me?"

 "Yes." She sucked on her lower lip for a moment before straightening her shoulders a bit. "I think you're right."

 "Tell me about him, Berent. What's his name?"

 She took her lower lip between her teeth this time, chewing visibly. "I met him at a party," she whispered finally. Her eyes fixed unseeingly on his face. "A few months ago. He -- a friend introduced us. He said -- we were compatible. That we had a lot in common."

 "What did you have in common, Berent?"

 Her cheeks were hectic red now, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I don't want to tell you. It's embarrassing. It's -- I can't."

 Garibaldi nodded slowly. "It's all right. It's okay. You don't have to tell me if you don't feel like it." He tried not to lean forward, show the urgency he felt tingling in his bones. "But tell me what happened, Berent. What happened later? Did he scare you?"

 "Yes."

 He could hardly hear her. "What did he do? Did he threaten you?"

 "No. No, not that, no."

 Patience, Mikey. "Did he hurt you?"

 Two enormous tears tipped onto her flushed cheeks. She nodded jerkily. "Yes. He hurt me. Like -- like --"

 "Like Charity?"

 A moment, and then she closed her eyes and nodded again.

 "Tell me his name, Berent. Just tell me his name."

 "Alan. Alan Campbell."

 "Thank you." He forced himself not to jump up immediately and race out the door, and smiled. "I don't think we'll --"

 "I won't help you any more than that." The stony sound was in her voice again, startling. She wiped the remains of tears from her cheeks and gave him a resolute look. "I won't help you prosecute him. This is all I can do. I can't do more than this, Mr. Garibaldi. Don't ask me to."

 "Without your help we won't be able to --"

 "I don't care," she interrupted, suddenly fierce. "I knew I'd finally have to tell someone about him, and now I have. Well, this is it. It's over, and I'm not doing anything that might mean he still has some influence on my life. I trusted him, and he is a monster, and now I don't trust anyone, Mr. Garibaldi. Not him, not you." She snorted. "I learned some hard lessons a couple of months ago. I learned you can't trust anyone. Not even yourself."

 "Is that what Charity did, Berent? Did she trust him, too?"

 "I don't know. I don't care. You have his name. That's what you came for, isn't it?" There were new tears in her eyes, making her blink angrily. She lurched to her feet without grace. "You have a name. Now you go out and do whatever it is you do when you catch monsters, Mr. Garibaldi. But you do it without me, okay? Just -- go away. Go away."

 He went to the door obediently, and turned. Collins was still standing by the chair, arms wrapped tightly around her slender body. "Thank you for your help," Garibaldi said softly. "I want to get Charity's killer. If you change your mind about testifying --"

 "I won't." Collins suddenly looked exhausted, but a hectic light burned in her eyes. "I won't change my mind. I've left this behind, Mr. Garibaldi. I don't do those things any more. I did my duty and I told you. I just -- I don't want to be a part of anything. I want to forget it."

 He nodded once. "Thank you," he repeated.

 He glanced at the hall chrono outside. He should go home. Follow up on this in the morning. But the insistent tingle in his muscles wouldn't let him sleep, anyway. What would be the point of trying?

 He ended up in the station house, nodding to the one tired man on duty before walling himself in his office. He sat in front of his computer terminal and started calling up whatever he could find on Alan Campbell.

 After a half hour's increasingly intense search, he sat back in his chair. Had she been wrong about the name? An alias, could have been. Easily. How would Collins have known the difference?

 Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

 Garibaldi sighed, and his eyes wandered over to Gertie, sitting mutely on a shelf. As dead-looking as ever. "I should find out what to do about you, shouldn't I?" The crisp leaves made him feel oddly sad. "You look worse. Guess I was right about my black thumb."

 It was time to give up, for now. He still felt restless, but it was late, and there would be time, tomorrow. Time to ask more questions. Time to do more digging, and figure out who this mysterious Alan Campbell was. ~~~~~~

The next morning held no new surprises. He had little time for pursuing his lead, officially or otherwise. A minor disagreement in the Zocalo between a Centauri trader and a Narn officer turned suddenly quite major, with the appearance of armed guards on both sides, and it was most of the morning before Garibaldi could even return to his office. Much less spend some much-needed computer time searching for Alan Campbell.

 In any case, the search was going nowhere. Garibaldi closed down one final manifest screen and sighed tiredly. 1433 hours, and he knew nothing more than what he'd learned from his brief audience with Berent Collins last night.

 "Chief?"

 He looked up, and grinned. "Hey, Zack. What's up?"

 "Not a lot, for once." His amiable second walked closer, and leaned against the desk. "Just thought I'd let you know: we got the final reports back on the Charity murder. Thought something might pan out -- maybe a DNA fragment or something. But we came up with zip. Preliminaries were right, Chief. She was clean as a whistle."

 So to speak, Garibaldi thought darkly. "I figured as much," he said aloud, and sighed again.

Zack lifted his eyebrows expressively. "So what now? I think maybe we ought to expand our search a little. Start questioning more people. Somebody's got to know something, it's just a matter of --"

 "Not today." Garibaldi shook his head briefly, and ignored Allan's startled look. "I'll keep looking into the case. But I need you to give me a hand on some other things. Duty rosters, for one." He glanced at the chrono on the wall. "I got a staff meeting in about half an hour. We'll go over what needs to be done when that's finished. Meantime, look at the roster and tell me how we're going to fill in the gaps. We're shorthanded as it is, and we got three people asked off for the jujitsu tournament next week."

 He handed Allan a data pad and watched his second's face cloud as he glanced down the woefully abbreviated personnel list. That would be enough to keep Zack occupied for a while.

 Long enough for Garibaldi to do what he needed to do.

 

* * *

This place was a far cry from Sheridan's little hideaway. Plain, austere. Neat enough, no health code violations, but bare-bones utility. Probably because it catered to those with varying tastes: the clientele was diverse, to put it mildly.

Garibaldi felt a stab of discomfort. His face was known here, and not welcome. Even in mufti he couldn't disguise who he was, or his reputation. Even those who didn't know him personally knew that much. It was a disadvantage. This was the test. To see if he could drop enough hints, make enough of a target of himself, to put this plan into motion.

 It didn't make sense, on the face of it. Hiding what he'd found from his men, from Zack. From Sheridan. But it did make sense, in a way. Enough sense that he found himself here, now, in the evening, prowling through a bar on a mission he'd told no one about.

 He didn't have to work at looking uncomfortable, or nervous. Completely natural state. What he had to do was put an edge on it. Look hungry, look desperate. A few words in the right ears, and things would come together. He was certain of it.

 Garibaldi crossed to the bar, and nodded to the bartender. A familiar face, this one. He felt a small start of surprise. Hadn't expected to see him here.

 "Chief." Rand Sorensen looked as startled as Garibaldi felt. "Boy, now that's a person I wouldn't expect to see in this dive. What brings you here of an evening?"

 Garibaldi couldn't help smiling. Rand wasn't a bad sort. Twisted, but all right. It had been a tip from Rand that had put the last pieces of a particular puzzle together for Garibaldi, last year. A name, which had led to the arrest of a very nasty Centauri running a pedophilia ring. Rand knew a lot of people. A lot of people who didn't really want to be known. This could be very, very good.

 He glanced down at the surface of the bar. "Just - out," he said vaguely. Feeling himself flushing, and that wasn't all pretense, now, was it?

 "It take it this is unofficial business?" Rand's voice was all too understanding, and Garibaldi darted a suspicious look at him. The bartender shrugged easily. "Chief, you got the look," he stated calmly. "Like you don't want anyone to know you're here. And you're out of uniform, which I think I've seen about one time since I came on this station two years ago. Call it bartender's instinct."

 He had to smile, but the painful blush hadn't faded. "You're right," Garibaldi said softly. "I was - That is, I was hoping-" He broke off. What exactly was he hoping? To gain enough information to make an arrest? Or something else? Something else entirely?

 "Looking for someone?" Rand's face was unreadable.

 Garibaldi nodded slowly. "Someone I've - heard of."

 "Gimme the name."

 "Human. A - Alan Campbell."

 The easy look slid off Rand's face. "Campbell?" he repeated, lips twisted with obvious distaste. "Beg your pardon, Chief, but what the fuck would you want with that piece of shit?"

 Garibaldi couldn't meet his eye. Nothing professional. Oh, God, this felt all too real. "I've heard -" He cleared his throat. "I've heard things," he murmured, listening to the pound of his heart in his ears. "I've heard he likes - certain things."

 A snort of disgust. "Yeah, you heard right. He does like things. Things no sane person likes. Take my advice, Chief," Rand hissed intently, leaning toward him. "Unless you're here to arrest the son-of-a-bitch, just stay the fuck away from Alan Campbell. He's fucking unhealthy."

 Garibaldi nodded. "I know," he said softly. "I - know."

 The bartender visibly recoiled. "Hey, Garibaldi," he blurted, frowning. "What you trying to tell me here? You want me to set you up with this guy? Is that it?"

 "You could do that?" Garibaldi stared at him.

A quick nod. "Yeah, I could do that. If I wanted to get rid of you. The hard way." Rand shook his head. "Chief, the guy's a monster. I wouldn't send my worst enemy his direction. And there are some people on this station who I really hate. None of them deserves that."

 "Where - Where can I find him?"

 "What is this? Some kind of kink, Garibaldi? You think Campbell's a turn-on, is that it?" Rand looked suddenly sick.

 I don't know if that's what I would call him. Maybe so. Maybe. Garibaldi tried for a smile. "I'm just - curious, that's all. I heard - I heard that maybe we have some things in common. I wanted - to find out. For sure."

 "Then you're way more fucked up than I ever dreamed, Chief, if you'll pardon my frankness." Rand grimaced, looking away. "I'll tell you where you might find him," he continued after a lengthy pause. "But I won't set it up. You're on your own. I don't want to know about it. Just leave me out of it. Okay?"

 "No problem." He felt a smile cross his face. Happy. Satisfied. "That's all I need. Tell me the place."

 Something in that smile took what little color remained in Rand's cheeks and made it disappear. "There's a club Downbelow. No name, you'll know it by the red door. Just past the Blue Salamander. Campbell - I heard he hangs there. Sometimes. Late."

 Garibaldi nodded slowly. "Thanks, Rand. I owe you again." He pushed himself away from the bar.

 "Garibaldi." The intensity in the bartender's voice made Garibaldi pause. "Don't fucking thank me for it," Rand stated tensely. Lips pulled back in a leer of distaste. "You got a kink, you got a kink. But if you play with Campbell, you're not just kinky. You got a death wish, man. He's a monster. People don't just play and walk away. The guy's into serious pain. Serious as in deadly. Walk away, Garibaldi. Just walk away. Find yourself some other kink, and leave him alone."

 Garibaldi studied him for a moment. Still smiling. "Thanks for the tip," he said softly. And meant it.

 

* * *

It wasn't hard to find the club. Exactly as Rand had said: a lone red door, about two meters past the bustling noise of the Blue Salamander. One advantage of this area of Downbelow: it was always crowded. Easy to disappear. He had a familiar face, but he knew how to blend in. Kept his head low, didn't look anyone in the eye. Headed for a beacon of red.

 I don't know what you look like, Mr. Campbell. But I think I'll recognize you. Somehow I just think I'll know you.

 There was an odd taste in his mouth. Metal, electric, making his teeth buzz in his head. The taste of fear. And excitement.

 The club was tiny, and not exactly packed. A morose pianist played something atonal and dirgelike in one dark corner. Small tables, a scattering of people whose faces were invisible in the murk. Garibaldi took a deep breath. Grabbed a seat at a table, and ordered a drink from the single, bleary-eyed waitress. He didn't plan to drink it. Just ordered it.

 It really didn't take too long. A figure disengaging from the bar. Walking over, pulling out a chair to sit at his table. Garibaldi looked up, startled.

 "Chief Garibaldi." The man was smooth-faced, younger than he had expected. Not at all what he'd expected. The youthful face smiled cordially. "I understand you are looking for someone. May I ask who that might be?" The voice was accented: a lilt of offworld grace.

 Campbell? Garibaldi resisted the urge to down his drink before answering. "I was told I could find someone here." He kept his voice casual, but heard the underlying tang of need in it. Blushed in spite of himself. Business, Michael. Business.

 "And that someone would be?" Courteous, gentle inquiry.

 "Alan Campbell." Flat.

 "I see." A breath of a pause. "And what would your business be with Mr. Campbell?"

 Sudden impatience flared in his chest. "Mutual interest," he spat, grinning.

A judicious nod. "Very interesting. In that case, Mr. Garibaldi, I will tell you that a meeting might be arranged. But first you must be aware of the rules."

 "Rules?" Garibaldi felt his smile fading. "What kind of rules?"

 The man smiled patiently. "Mr. Campbell is a careful man," he answered coolly. "With - interests such as his, one cannot be too cautious. But perhaps you would know of such things? Bearing in mind your 'mutual interest.'" There was no censure in the words. Only cold calculation.

 "I can be discreet." Garibaldi laughed once, humorlessly. Felt the growing frustration in his belly. In his groin. "Security, remember?"

 An oddly gentle laugh. "Indeed. Just what is it you seek from Mr. Campbell? If I may be so inquisitive as to ask."

 He wanted to squirm. Stand up, walk away. And he didn't want to leave at all. "I've heard he - likes things. Things I like, too. Intense things."

 "Intense. As in?"

 Garibaldi felt his lips pulling back from his teeth, a grin of need. "Pain," he whispered, and tasted bile at the back of his throat.

A slow, considering nod. "Mr. Campbell is a cautious man," the smooth-faced stranger said evenly. "But it is possible that a - mutual agreement might be reached."

 "Can't I see him? Talk to him?"

 "In good time. All in good time." The man smiled briefly, patronizingly. "First, the conditions." He began ticking them off on his long, well-manicured fingers. "You will consider your dealings with Mr. Campbell to be held in strictest privacy. You will tell no one of your contact with him, nor any details of where your meeting - or meetings, should that be the case - takes place. You will obey any instructions given you without hesitation or complaint. If it is found that you are not serious in your desires - a gameplayer, let us say, or a dilettante - you will be summarily dismissed, and further contact with Mr. Campbell will be strongly discouraged. Quite - strongly discouraged." His smile was wintry. "Are we in agreement so far?"

 You're a smug little prick, aren't you? Garibaldi smiled back, grimly. "No problem."

 "Excellent. Then I believe we have covered all the formalities." The go-between - if that was indeed who this was - pushed his chair back and rose.

 Garibaldi blinked. "That's it?" He frowned. "I don't get to meet him? I mean-"

 "All in good time, Mr. Garibaldi." A flawless, oily smile. "First I must present Mr. Campbell with your - proposal. After all, you are a well-known personage about this station. How do we know that you are not making this contact for your own nefarious purposes? If the prospect is enticing enough, you will be contacted. If not, then you will know by the silence that you have not been accepted. Good evening, Mr. Garibaldi." He nodded once, and moved away.

 Accepted? he thought grimly. So I have to pass muster? What the fuck is this, an Academy admissions test?

 Of course it made sense. He was security, after all. A high risk for anyone who had dealings of a less than legal nature. Of course they'd check him out. And other than the obligatory investigation into Charity No-Name's untimely death, they would find no connection. He hadn't asked any questions about Campbell. No background checks, no paperwork, no allegations. There was nothing there. No one to realize that Campbell was his prime suspect. His only suspect.

 I think your interest will outweigh your caution. I think the prospect of having another victim will make you decide to take the chance. You let yourself go with Charity, and that tells me something. It tells me that maybe you haven't had many chances to let go lately. That you're holding in, and that pisses you off. You need to do whatever it is you do, for whatever reasons. And I need to catch you, because I won't tolerate a murderer on my station, even if it was a byproduct of something else. I need to catch you because it's my job.

 I think you'll take the bait, Alan Campbell. You'll play right into my hands, and you'll never know what hit you.

 He was smiling a bit as he left the club. Energized, excited. The promise of the chase, the building anticipation. It was a familiar feeling.

 And there was something else, that made this even more interesting. In the back of his mind, where the dimmer thoughts lurked, the ones that didn't make it out into daylight very often. The darker excitement: this was not Sheridan. This was a stranger, an unknown. Someone who might do - more. Much, much more than Sheridan. The need was dull, but sharpening.

A random thought. One he squelched quickly. Frowning.

 It was the best of both worlds. Two birds with one stone. ~~~~~~~

Sheridan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his burning eyes. Looked back at the computer screen and sighed gustily. Burning the midnight oil again, Johnny. Are you even reading these reports any more? Or just skimming through them, because you're too tired to give a real shit by this point in the day?

 He scrolled down the list. Not a lot left for today. A statement from the hydroponics sector. Some garbled something from computer services. Franklin's daily Medlab report. Nothing that couldn't wait until morning.

 And nothing from Security.

 He pursed his lips a little. Having a slow week, Mr. Garibaldi? I'm glad to see you're staying out of trouble. You know I'm watching. Your work is fine. How's your off-duty time going? You're not doing anything suspicious. You're hanging with the same people. Watching the same vids. You're being very, very good.

 I don't believe you. Not for a fucking second.

 He pushed himself away from the desk with one rough gesture, and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. Drank the flat liquid without registering the metallic taste.

I feel like something's building, Michael. You can't just leave it alone. I know you. You won't be able to do that. And when you make your move, I'm going to see it. You do just fine when you're on duty. It's your private time where you'll stumble.

 He smiled grimly. I'm not going to let you die, Garibaldi. Not under my command, not now, and not later.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**    
His morning started out lousy, and promised to get worse.

 Garibaldi walked into a heated discussion of last night's abortive arrest Downbelow. Took about two seconds before launching into the hapless staff. Why hadn't he been informed? What the hell were they thinking? And where was the guy now? Halfway to Io, if he was any judge.

 It was an ill omen. An hour later, news of vandalism. The arboretum, graffiti-ed obscenities. A B&E. Two muggings, within minutes of each other. Domestic violence in Brown Sector. A report of an attempted sexual assault on one of the baccarat girls in a casino.

 This before 1000 hours. It was going to be a long fucking day.

 The message came much earlier than he'd expected it. And he did expect it. Oh yes.

 A messenger, one of the couriers that ran odd errands for the diplomatic staff. Clearly recruited having no idea what she carried. A smile, a sealed sheet of flimsy.

Brief and to the point. A room, in the transient quarters. Red Sector. A time. Tomorrow, 2200 hours. Late. Excellent.

 The flimsy was self-erasing. He watched the words fade, and then crumpled the page and tossed it into the regen outlet. It might have been evidence, if it were permanent, and if it had held some kind of identifying information. As it was, Garibaldi rather thought it wouldn't be needed. He would have all the evidence he needed, quite soon enough.

 It took a significant portion of his off-duty time, that evening. Getting everything set up. Fine-tuning. Piece of cake.

 He went to bed at 0345 hours. Slept soundly.

 The next day passed with the unbearable slowness of cold molasses. Sometimes he felt as if he were dreaming. Everything felt surreal. The sudden clarity of his vision. Seeing people, places, with an eye that had never been keener. He had breakfast with Franklin and Ivanova, and found himself laughing uproariously, enjoying his food, enjoying the company. A fast, friendly lunch with Zack. Work was not bad, somehow. Hectic, but every moment oddly to be savored. Even his reports were not the dull burden they usually were. He took particular care, making sure things were clear, precise, updated. Smiled as he filed one after another.

 He was humming as he left the office at 1900 hours. Everything in its place. He watered Gertie before he closed up. No more green than yesterday, or the day before. He muttered a few encouraging words at the silent plant, before dousing the office lights.

 Dinner was a pleasure. Solitary, but that was all right. He made risotto, with the last of his hoarded store of saffron and expensive dried mushrooms. Even the vids were not as saccharine as usual; he watched a comedy, and found himself laughing out loud again, almost choking on his food at one point.

 The vid finished up at 2045 hours. He looked at the chrono, and then took his dishes into the kitchen. Washed up carefully. Ended up neatening the apartment a bit. In for a penny, right?

 A quick shower. Clothes, that he picked carelessly, for anonymity rather than any kind of style. Exquisitely unimportant.

 At 2125 he sat down to compose his report. In advance. This would squirt to Sheridan's desktop pretty quickly, but he had long since learned a back door subroutine that would allow him to delay transmission a couple of hours, maybe three. Unless Sheridan stayed up all night working on his backlog, he wouldn't get this until morning.

 Short and to the point. He could expect flak for not having filed the Charity report before now. It really didn't matter, did it? Her case was unsolved, as of yet. After tonight, it would be solved. No problem.

 He closed out the report, and sent it. Scrambling around in the circuitry for hours. This subroutine would send the report about four hundred different places before finally depositing it at its real destination. The process took hours. Wonderful trick.

 The tape crystal took a couple of minutes. He already knew what he was going to say.

 2142. He had to get going. No more time to waste.

 He hadn't expected to feel sad. A kind of distant, aching regret. He looked around the apartment, pocketing the crystal absently. The prints, the relics of his life. Neat and orderly, after his fling at housecleaning earlier. Was this right? He swallowed. He really didn't know. Didn't know anything any longer. It had all faded, two months ago. Blurred, until he no longer really cared. Now there was sorrow, although he couldn't feel it very strongly. Regret.

 Another glance at the chrono. 2144. Time to move.

 His mind was clear. Filled with eagerness. Time to move indeed.

 He was whistling quietly as the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

Sheridan downed the last of his brandy. Sighed with pleasure.

"Told you it was good."

 He looked up, grinned at Franklin. "This isn't on your eating plan, Stephen," he replied with a smirk. "Medicinal purposes?"

 The doctor laughed out loud. "Something like that," he agreed, and chuckled again. "I recommend it for whatever ails you. To a certain degree, at least."

 Sheridan smiled. Glanced down at the decimated remains of the meal on his plate. It had been a good evening. Hell, it had been a good day. Quieter than usual, but not dull. Everyone in a good mood. This dinner had been the topper. A new shipment in from Earth. Venison, of all things. The chef had prepared something called hirschpfeffer. Heavy, aromatic, tangy. Spaetzle, fresh vegetables. A cold, tart salad. Wine that surprised him with its heady flavor.

 And Franklin's recommended V.O.P. 2235 to end it. Quite a day.

 Ivanova had been surprisingly quiet; Sheridan glanced at her and saw the telltale droop of her eyelids. "Coffee, Susan?"

 She glanced over at him, and smiled sheepishly. "Big meals make me sleepy," she murmured, struggling to wrestle down a yawn. "Not to mention adding in brandy."

 "I should probably get going myself. Getting late." Sheridan looked from Ivanova to Franklin. "Hate to say it," he stated, grinning. "But this was a damn good day. Wasn't it?"

 "I think it was a calm virus. Spreading through the station." Ivanova sighed. "Wish all your bugs were so kind, Stephen."

 The doctor shrugged. "I noticed it, too. Not one cranky patient today. And I thought Michael was going to herniate himself at lunch, he was laughing so hard." He chuckled a bit at the memory. "That Pak'ma'ra joke he told -- killer."

 Sheridan paused for a moment. Looking intently at Franklin. "So this good mood bug spread even to the irascible Mr. Garibaldi?" Keeping his voice even, not betraying his interest.

 "Oh, yeah. I don't think I've seen him this cheerful in -" Franklin gave it visible thought. "Well, I don't know how long. Months. Yeah."

 "Hey, even Garibaldi has good days." Ivanova snorted. "Even if they've been few and far between lately. A nasty security chief is a pain in the ass. I was just glad to see him smiling for once."

 "Yes, you're right." Sheridan cleared his throat. "Well, I hate to end our evening, but I should get going. I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through still."

 Ivanova stared at him. "You're not saying you're going home to work, are you?" She shuddered. "Give it a rest, if you don't mind my saying so. They're just reports. They can wait until morning."

 "Probably. But if I wait I'll have all today's reports plus tomorrow's to deal with, and frankly that thought is enough to put me in a mood to match one of Mr. Garibaldi's foul humors." He grinned. "And I think one of him is enough for this station. Don't you agree?"

 Enthusiastic nods from both officers. "Take it easy, Captain," Franklin said, as Sheridan rose from his chair. "Save something for tomorrow."

 "You know it, Stephen. Evening, Susan. See you tomorrow."

 He saw a chrono on his way to the lift. 2245 hours. Mentally added up as he waited for transportation. Work a couple of hours. Get through the big stuff. Piddly crap with breakfast tomorrow. He could start with a clean slate by 0800.

The lift opened, and he stepped inside.

 

* * *

He was five minutes late. That should have worried him, but didn't. Simply added to his anticipation. The eagerness that surged like boiling acid in his veins.

 The designated room was well off the beaten track. Stuck at the end of a long, echoing hallway. Cheap, utilitarian short-term housing. Garibaldi was quite familiar with the area. There had been more than a few crimes committed here. Favored because of its relative isolation, and because those who did stay here, instead of the more comfortable upper level accommodations, tended to keep to themselves. See nothing, hear nothing, and always, always: say nothing. It wasn't Downbelow. It was only an underbelly: showing that even uplevel could be dangerous.

 He saw no one in the corridor. Music played in one room, blasting even through metal walls. But he heard no conversations, and saw no other living being. It was almost amazing; there was almost nowhere on the entire station that ever felt isolated. Where you didn't see one or two people, even at the oddest hours of early morning. Coming home from shift work, or after a few too many drinks at the casinos.

The room was sealed, but unlocked. Opening to his touch. He watched the door cycle open, but stood outside for a moment. Listening to the sudden throb of his heart. Analyzing his feelings. Anxiety: yes. Fear: some. Excitement. Overwhelming. His hands were so cold he could hardly feel them, hanging loosely at his sides.

 He walked into the room.

Darkness. Punctuated by one lamp, in the corner, giving off a meager weak circle of illumination. A chair by the lamp, empty. A flat, tightly-made bed by one wall. Cheap computer access panel. Bathroom visible to the left. He took a step inside.

 And felt something close about his throat. An arm, a tall person, yanking him to the side, forcing him to his knees. He heard the dull sound as he thudded to the floor.

 "You're late." A clarion whisper in his ear. Voice like shredded metal, a fork scraping across a china plate. "You push people, don't you, Mr. Garibaldi? Push limits. But what if you push and find there are no limits? That you can push and push and never stop? Would you like that? Is that why you're here?"

 He swallowed against the hand on his throat. "You know why I'm here," he rasped, and smiled thinly, staring into the murky room.

 The hand tightened, and there was a laugh behind him. Very close behind. "Indeed I do, Mr. Garibaldi. Indeed, I most certainly do."

 Powerful hands pushed him forward, sprawling on the floor. He would have tried to climb to his feet, but a foot connected solidly with his solar plexus, and suddenly he was very busy trying to remember how to breathe, trying to force air into his empty lungs.

 "Why don't you just stay down there for a while, hmm, Mr. Security Chief? Give us a little time to chat."

He could not see the other man. Even when he moved into visual range, the room's darkness hid his features. Tall, yes, although not astoundingly so. About Garibaldi's height, a bit more. Heavy-set. Too hard to tell if it was muscle or fat.

"What are you doing here?" The voice was hard-edged, like fine steel. A singing piano wire of contempt making the words more cutting, more abrasive. "You checking me out, Garibaldi? Or are you here for my -- professional services?" An audible smirk. "Either you think you know something that you don't, and you came here thinking you could brazen your way through. Or you've got an agenda hidden from all your EA friends. Something you want, and you can't get. Which is it, Garibaldi?"

 He could breathe again, although air came in short, hurting gasps. "You -- know why I'm here," he hissed, grabbing a breath. "I know -- who you are."

 "And do you want what I have, Mr. Garibaldi?" Sudden, intent interest. "Do you want it?"

 "Yes. Yes." He had been lying on his side; now he dared to raise up a few inches, levering up on one arm. "I want it," he whispered, and recognized the unspeakable eagerness in his own voice.

Which Campbell hadn't missed, either. "Maybe we do have something in common, then," he murmured, and there was the hint of a smile in his voice. "You see, Mr. Garibaldi, I have a very -- unpopular pleasure. Very much unacceptable in polite company. I like to hurt people. I like it very much. And so, when I hear of someone who in a sense shares my interest -- albeit in a slightly skewed way -- I find it fascinating to meet them. Explore our mutual interests. Do you know what sorts of people I find interesting?"

 He could almost make out a face now. Not quite. But close. Eyes adjusting to the dimness. "What sorts?"

 "Those who like what I can give them. People who like the pain, as much as I like producing it. Sometimes even more." A quick movement, and there was a hand holding Garibaldi's chin, forcing his head up, a painfully sharp angle. Pulling him up to his knees. "Are you one of those people? Do you like pain?"

 "Y -- yes."

"How interesting. Let me guess. A little play, discovering you liked something you didn't realize you could like. Oh, and now the like is more than like, isn't it? So much more. You need it. Like a man dying of thirst craves water. And you think that perhaps I can give you what you need. Is that it?"

 He would have nodded, but could not move his head. "Yes." Throttled, almost impatient.

 The hand released him, letting him sag back to a more normal posture. "Fine. Remove your clothing."

 There was a curious buzzing noise in his ears. Faint, humming, frantic. His cold fingers didn't want to manage buttons. He forced them to. The room was cool, the air on his skin somehow invigorating. He stood to remove his trousers, and was briefly, distantly aware of his hard, eager cock springing from its confinement. Toed out of his shoes. Would have knelt again, uncertain, but the man's voice stopped him.

 "Be very still. Let me see what you have brought me."

 Hands, rough, acquisitive, not the relatively gentle touch he had known before but possessive, commandeering his body, inspecting, exploring. He felt the dull heat of humiliation creeping up his cheeks. Flinched as hands slipped down his back, prodding the remains of marks on his ass. "Someone's been here before me." Cool, intent words. "But they didn't do enough, did they? Not for you. You want more. Don't you?"

 A finger probed inside him, and he would have flinched away, aghast. Forced himself to remain where he was. It was an endurable thing. So little, in exchange for so much. Wasn't it? He was here because of -- because of something. Something important. His raddled brain was suddenly empty, void of thought. He couldn't remember why he was here. Exactly. It no longer mattered. What mattered was the promise of the uncaring hands now reaching forward, inspecting his rigid, eager cock.

Pain. Pinching, and he groaned, low in his throat.

 "I think we're going to have fun, Mr. Garibaldi." Whispered into his ear, making his eyes shut reflexively. "A great deal of fun."

 

* * *

He let the tea steep for five full minutes. Relishing the aromatic fragrance. Put the tea bag in the disposal unit and carried the cup with him to his desk.

 The work staring at him was daunting. How had Sinclair ever managed to stay caught up? Or had he? Sheridan smiled a little, took a sip of tea, hissing as it burned his tongue. Maybe Sinclair had been better at keeping up with the endless mountain of paperwork, or maybe not. But whatever trade secrets he'd had, he'd taken with him to Minbar.

I think a core dump would be the best solution. Or maybe rerouting half of these to Susan. Let her see what command is really like.

 He would do neither, of course, but it was kind of fun to think about.

 The first item was the Narn trade dispute, of course. Sheridan paged down a little, and sighed. So were the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth items. A statement from every allegedly injured party.

Ah, mediation. What a thrill.

 He leaned his chin on his hand and started reading.

 

* * *

A hand snuck around him, whispering through the hair on his chest, arriving at his nipple. Pinching once, twisting. He groaned, arched his back unconsciously. Heart making a startled kind of leap in his chest.

 "You like that, do you?" Another twist, this one vicious. Garibaldi drew a harsh breath, but didn't cry out.

 Yes. I don't know why but I do I do.

 The hands were at his wrist, fiddling with his left arm. The touch of cool leather. He didn't look down. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the echo of pain, tantalizing. Evocative. Leather on his right wrist. Something pulling his arms up, and now he did look, but it was quite too late to do anything about it. A startled glance at the ceiling, seeing the hook there. The ropes. The ropes that were attached to the cuffs he now wore.

 Pulled until he was uneasily balanced on the balls of his feet. Not uncomfortable, not yet. But it would be. So exposed.

 Movement, a hand tracing its way around his waist. And he finally came face-to-face with Alan Campbell.

 More handsome than he had expected. What? Had he thought that because the man had done monstrous things, he would take on the look of a monster? Quite the contrary. Even, pleasing features. A little ordinary, in fact. A bit taller than Garibaldi, although eye-to-eye now that he stood on tiptoe. Nothing at all, this wasn't the face of a monster. Just someone he might see every day, walk on past without knowing.

 Until he looked closer. Saw the thin, sensual mouth, curved now in a perfect, somehow terrifying smile. The set of the strong, pugnacious jaw.

 And his eyes. Garibaldi had to swallow. There's nothing there, his mind shrieked suddenly, a gibbering scream. Looking into his eyes is like staring down a pit. You can see forever but you can't see anything, because there's nothing there, the lights are on but no one's home, he's just empty, empty, empty

 "What do you think now, Mr. Garibaldi?" Campbell's mouth hardly moved when he spoke. Garibaldi noted it distantly, faint echo of evidence-gathering. Like watching a robot talk, sound but no corresponding lip movement. Set in a smile that held no friendliness, God, no excitement at all, he might as well be asking Michael's opinion on the coffee in the Zocalo, instead of this. "There's no backing out now. Does that excite you? Does it please you?"

The colorless, bottomless eyes seemed suddenly larger. Looming, sucking at him, drawing him in. No, no, no this is a huge mistake, what the everlasting fuck am I doing here, I haven't done anything this incredibly stupid since I pulled my last bender.

 "Yes," he heard himself whisper, and wanted to weep suddenly. "Yes, oh God, yes."

 Sighed as fingers took his nipples, fondled them. Pulled at them until he felt himself move forward. Pain. Yes. Precisely.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**    
Sheridan reached out for his cup, drank without looking.

 And grimaced. Cold tea. Nice if it was supposed to be cold, but pretty fragging disgusting if not.

 He looked at the chrono. 2332 hours. Weeping creeping Jesus, it hadn't even been an hour yet. He groaned out loud. I want to sleep. I want this work to do itself, and leave me the hell alone for a while.

 He sighed. Closed the screen he'd been sort of studying, and scrolled down the list of remaining messages. All too many left. More than there had been. New ones coming in. Great. Just great.

 He got up, and went to the kitchen. Poured out the cold tea and started water for fresh. Who was he kidding? Sleep was for people who could manage to get all their work done at work.

New tea. Old job. He approached his desk, and sat down with a sigh. Just hurry on up and get it done. At least look at everything. Then you'll be at least somewhat clued in when tomorrow's shit hits the fan.

 Messages came in chronologically, for the most part. And he strongly believed in doing the older work first. After all, it had waited longest. So he was a little surprised at himself when he reversed order and checked newest first. Well, like that was any big deal. That would make headlines, if anyone knew. "Gee, didja hear? Sheridan actually read his messages in reverse order last night! Can ya believe it?"

 He grinned in spite of himself. A grin that faded as he saw the latest message.

 Security. Well, well. Filing late tonight, aren't we, Mr. Garibaldi?

 Nothing that outstanding. Routine information for the most part. He scrolled through the report quickly, eyes noting each paragraph before moving on. So like Garibaldi. Terse, laconic, it didn't take a teep to notice the chief was not fond of paperwork.

The last case caught his eye. Report on medical findings, a murder. He remembered hearing about it. Waitress, particularly nasty death. He made a face, scanning Franklin's observations quickly.

 Well, Garibaldi had had a busy day. Good to see that he was occupied.

 Sheridan closed the report, and glanced up the screen. Next. Something from Medical, treatment records. A virus that -

 He paused. The woman. Something about the woman.

 Back to security. Down, it was near the bottom. Innocuous. The medical report. Findings. Evidence of beating. The ritualized mutilation. Beating. No, not beating, John. Whipping. Extended whipping. Genital piercing. Spiked, the woman had been spiked.

 Suddenly he was not at all tired.

 What had Garibaldi said about this? Homicide. Possibly involuntary, evidence of bondage and sadomasochistic activity. One suspect. Alan Campbell. Age unknown, origin unknown. Evidence of previous related activity, lacking enough evidence for arrest.

 Up, scrolling up again. Time stamp. 2149 hours. Nearly two hours ago. It didn't take that long to send a message. Not by a long shot. Where the fuck had this message been?

 Sheridan pushed himself back from the desk. Tapped his comm unit. Called for Garibaldi.

 Nothing. No reply. Again. Nothing.

 It was ridiculous, this fear that swept over him suddenly. Irrational. This was a murder case, Garibaldi had a suspect, well in hand.

 What is going on? Why does this scare me?

 He called again. No reply.

 

* * *

He moved restlessly. Arms getting tired, muscles twitching, cold fingers. The cuffs on his wrists were angled by his weight, biting into the fronts of his hands.

 Campbell. The lightless eyes were gleaming in the small, deflected light. "To business," he said, distant voice, inflectionless words. Taking small bits from someplace, holding them in front of Garibaldi's narrowed eyes. "Do you know what these are, Mr. Garibaldi?"

 "Clamps," he said, and shook once, all over.

 "Clamps, yes. And more." A squeeze and the tiny metal jaws opened, revealing minuscule double rows of shark's teeth. "So much more."

 He didn't have words for this. The jagged spike of fear that tore through his chest. The spreading heat of his groin, sharp contrast to his cold arms. "Y-" His voice shivered. "You're going to-"

 "I'm going to, yes."

 The first clamp, chill metal brushing tender flesh, making him arch his back, gasping in anticipation. "Ready, Mr. Garibaldi?"

 Closing. A hundred needles, a thousand tiny blades slicing cleanly into defenseless puckered skin. Something building in his throat: cry of surprised, stunned agony.

Campbell touched the clamp, bringing a darkened finger up to gleam in the bare light. "The first drops are spilled." He smeared the finger on Garibaldi's trembling mouth, and then brought it to his own. Sucking at it without any visible expression at all. "Delicious."

 Second clamp. Worse pain than the first, that wasn't possible but it was true, and Garibaldi fought for purchase with his toes, away, he would skitter away if he could but he couldn't, it was impossible, there was nothing but here and the blazing nexus of pain in his chest.

 Closed eyes. Open, and Campbell was gone, where

 Hissing sound, and something struck his ass. The icy bite, cold and then hot, unbearably hot, a line of fire that built, blazing, across his skin.

 He was smiling. He is smiling. He is

 in the moment

 and cries out, a scream of mad joy, as the next blow strikes. Searing track of pain.

 

* * *

It took a mad lifetime of running to reach Garibaldi's quarters. Be there, be there, just fucking be there. Ignoring me. That's fine just be there.

 No answer. Command override.

Obviously no one. The apartment had a sleeping look, waiting for its resident to come home again. Patient, tidy. Dishes dry in the rack. Computer idle.

 His hands were shaking. Where the fuck are you, Michael? Where the fuck are you?

 Anywhere. Someplace prosaic. Earhart's, the Zocalo. Anyplace, he could be anyfuckingplace and there was no way to know.

 You sent that report at ten till ten tonight. You sat and sent it, and you made sure I wouldn't get it until later. Somehow, for some reason, you delayed it. Why? Why, Michael? What was in that report that you didn't want me to see? I saw something, damn you. I don't know yet what it was, but you told me something.

 He approached the desk, sat down. Touching the cool flat surface as if he could feel Garibaldi's presence, read his actions. Dowsing, hands like willow branches dipping and searching. Clue. There would be something. He knew it. Did not know how he knew it. Didn't remotely care.

 Going through the desk. Nothing, nothing at all, useless shit, trash, no fucking thing. He heard his own breath. Panting, sawing in and out of a throat that was so tight it was agony.

Flailing hand, reached for something, knocking over a data crystal holder. Piece of paper. Real paper.

He unfolded it. You meant for me to tear things apart looking for this. You fucking bastard. Single letter: J. You stupid, fucking idiot. His breath whined in his throat. So brief. "Gertie has everything. M." He crumpled the paper in his hand, flung it across the room. It bounced off a print on the wall. Rolled under a chair.

 Gertie has everything.

 What is everything?

 Who the fuck is Gertie?

 

* * *

There is a sound in the pregnant air, and he knows distantly that it is his own voice. Screaming? Possible. The screams feel right, breaking from the sore starting gate of his throat. Galloping away, to fade in the darkness.

 The lash bites into his back. His ass, his thighs. It is everywhere, and he is nowhere, he is here but he is not completely here, he is everywhere too. He is inside, he is outside, he is feeling, he is observing. There is an oddly warm feeling. A wet feeling. It tickles, makes him shiver.

Cessation. Hanging suspended by arms that no longer feel anything at all. Sharp contrast to the rest of him, which feels everything. Odd sensation. Has he ever known such a thing before? There is no part of his back that does not hurt. Every inch, every millimeter of skin is on fire. A cold fire, nothing warm about it. The air is cold on his skin.

 His eyes are closed. The pain is a benediction. The pain is so terrible. So terribly right.

 Opens his eyes, as something else begins. Something not wanted. Something frightening.

 "No." His voice is cracked, nearly inaudible. So tired.

 Something hot. Something pressing against him. He twists but his hips are held firm, a grasp that burns his skin, slipping, sliding, taking hold once more. His skin feels wet.

There is something going inside him, and it burns, it tears, it pulls at his opening and pushes its way inside, and it hurts, a different kind of pain, unwelcome, terrifying.

 "Don't. Don't, no, don't."

 He can't hear his own voice. Hears only a stuttered groan of pain as the something tears its way inside him. Dry, dry, his own flesh giving way reluctantly, sighing apart.

 Sawing in and out. Fucked, he is being fucked, he is being raped and now there is wetness there is lubrication and he knows in a distant kind of way what that lubrication is. The pain informs him, a quick bolt of physical data: bleeding. Yes.

 

* * *

Gertie.

 He paced back and forth. Desk to kitchen to bed to desk to kitchen.

Michael, you fucking son-of-a-bitch. Who the fuck is Gertie?

A friend. A neighbor. No. The first thing he'd done was a search of the station roster. Permanent residents, transients. Staff, families, everyone. No Gerties. No Gertrudes or Geraldines or any other permutation his frantic brain could concoct. Nofuckingthing.

 Who might know? Ivanova? Franklin?

 He paused in his restless walking. No. Someone better.

 "Ca-- Captain?" Zack Allen looked completely stunned, face still creased with sleep. "What can I do for you, sir?"

 "Zack. I'm sorry to be calling this late. I need to know something."

 "Anything, sir." Sheridan's tone seemed to have more effect than a cup of coffee; Allen's eyes were suddenly wide, and nervous.

 "Mr. Garibaldi's been working on a case. Charity, the woman who was recently murdered."

 "Yes, sir. Nasty. I remember. Can't forget."

 Sheridan nodded busily. "I need to know what he was working on, Zack." Crisp, totally official words. No tremble of fear. He was distantly proud of that. "Did he have any leads? This suspect. Alan Campbell. Anything specific, anything he was pursuing?"

 Allen looked a little befuddled. "What was the name again?" Doubtful voice.

 "Alan Campbell. He listed him as the only suspect."

 "Sir." Allen shook his head slowly, and shrugged. "I've never heard the name before. If the chief had a suspect, this is the first I've heard of it. As far as I knew this was all still a big mystery."

 You didn't tell anyone. No one. Why? Why, God damn you? Nodding again. "One more thing, Zack. Does the name Gertie mean anything to you? Know anyone by that name?"

 "Who? Gertie?" The youthful face screwed up a little with concentration. "No," came the eventual doubtful reply. "Not that I can think of. Sorry, sir."

 He wanted to scream. Forced himself to nod instead. "It's all right, Zack. Sorry to have bothered you."

 "No problem, sir. Any time."

 Sheridan cut the link curtly.

Michael, if you aren't dead already I'm going to kill you myself. He felt his throat clench. Dead. Not dead. Why this preoccupation with death?

 Like you don't know. You're not as stupid as you act, Johnny. You've been a little slow on the uptake, but it's all starting to make sense now, isn't it? You don't --

 His commlink beeped at him. "Sheridan."

 "Captain." Zack Allen's now wide-awake voice. "Did you say Gertie?"

 "Gertie. Yes." Impatient.

 Allen laughed a little. Sounding embarrassed. "I thought you meant a person. I mean, I just remembered. There's a Gertie. But Gertie's not a who. Gertie's a what."

 His teeth were grinding. "What 'what?'"

 "Gertie's a plant. This dead plant that the chief has in his office. Brought it in a couple of days ago. I just -- I thought you meant a person. But the only Gertie I know of is this stupid plant."

 

* * *

He looks up, into this face. This motionless mask-face, this unrevealing unspeaking unspeakable face. He feels dull now. The pain has receded for a moment. He hurts, but it is a distant hurt. As if his mind has decided to run away from recognition of discomfort. It is happening to someone else.

 A ghostly hand, reaching to his chest. Raw, jagged pain, as if a bit of himself has suddenly been torn off. He can see the clamp in Campbell's hand. The dark stain on the sharp teeth. Opening, closing again, and he screams, a brittle, shivering cry that breaks in half suddenly. Screams because he knows already, it doesn't take the hand on his cock, his stubbornly half-erect, dazed cock, to tell him what is happening. The warm grip moving his flesh, the pinch, the bite of teeth. He jerks, feet leaving the floor. What erupts from his throat is not a scream but a howl, wordless, frantic. The tip of his cock screams in unison.

 There is no one here. He is alone. There is someone behind him. The whistle of a whip, a jingling sound that is new, startling.

 This bite is different. One flick, almost leisurely, and he can feel something odd. Pain, yes, but a kind of sundering. Rending. The agony in his back flares, white-hot and grabbing the breath from his lungs, robbing him of the scream he needs, choking him.

 Stop. Wait. Please, stop. I don't think -- I don't know if I want

 Another flick, another blaze of this new, furious agony. This time his scream works very well. Very well indeed.

 

* * *

He saw the plant, the minute he hit the lights. Forlorn, crisp, definitely dying. Yep. Just like Zack told him.

 "Gertie." You smart-ass prick. The thought had little power now. His anger was metamorphosing. Turning to fear. Fear that made his hands shake, turned his fingers to ice.

He picked up the plant. Blue pot. A shower of crumbling leaves. Nothing. Nothing.

 Something. Glimmer of crystal. There, behind the pot, lying forgotten on the shelf.

 He dropped the crystal once. Squirting from his nerveless hands like a sliver of soap. Picked it up and dropped it into the reader on the desk.

 Garibaldi's face. So calm, so complete. Everything normal. Status quo.

 Listened. Watched. Absorbed.

 A plan. A plan so deliriously stupid, so wantonly dangerous Sheridan felt like screaming. Pounding his fist into the innocent viewscreen. Wanting to hit something. To weep, to do something.

 "There has to be a mark, you know. Someone has to go in. It makes sense that it would be me. Don't you think?"

 You stupid, suicidal asshole. No, it doesn't have to be you, it doesn't have to be anyone, why have you done this, why why why?

 A smile. Placid. Calm. "Everything's going just as I thought it would. By the time you find this, I guess it'll be over. Make sure you check the logs. You'll find everything you need. I'm meeting him in Red Sector. I want you to know that, so you'll know which tape to find. There's a tape. Just check the logs. The morning report will generate at 0600."

 What room, Michael? What room, what fucking ROOM?

 Blank screen.

 

* * *

He is so tired. So terribly, utterly tired. He wants to rest. To close his eyes, to let go, let this pain crest and take him away, far away, to where there is no more pain, no more anything but blessed, quiet dark.

 It takes him by surprise. This new thing. A kind of exhausted, wondering surprise.

what are you putting inside me what is this

 Scraping, he can hear it, he can hear it going in, raspy sound, and he wants to flinch away but he has no strength left, none at all. Opening him again, but with what, this grating, this sawing feeling, a million pinpricks of pain. Coming to rest, hanging heavy and hot inside him. A touch on his ass, his flayed bleeding ass and he jerks, feels his asshole contract, and the feeling of something imbedding itself, digging in sharply, forcing a terrible, shredded cry from his tired throat.

 His arms are free. He drops like a sack of flour, collapsing without grace, without dignity, a tearless, mindless heap on the cool floor.

 Hands on his head. His face, pulling him up to his knees. His back screams protest, warms trickles of something, and the thing inside him lurches, his own traitorous muscles insinuating it deeper. His mouth is open to scream.

 And then something in his mouth, greedy invasion, and his eyes widen.

 He can't take this it is too big far too long he can't do this he doesn't know how.

 Trying to breathe, but this thing in his mouth keeps cutting off air, and he gulps hysterically, the exhaustion gone, now he is energized, he is terrified, he is choking, trying to breathe through his nose, his mouth is so full.

 Nose. Fingers, closing that one remaining passageway.

 The presence in his mouth surging forward, past any point he can imagine, and his eyes are closing, because there is no air, there is liquid in his throat which he cannot swallow, it is past the point of swallowing, thick red-shot darkness looming.

 And then release, and he is sagging forward, limply, aggrieved throat flexing, a whistle of air that burns it is so cold. There is something thick in his mouth, he must swallow but first he must breathe, and he coughs, gasps and coughs again, mindlessly. Leans over and feels his stomach heaving, empty it, get this out out now.

 

* * *

There were so many possibilities. Too many. Too fucking many.

 Think, Sheridan. Be cool. You're not going to find this by going plasma now. Calm down, think, find it, go, and then you can freak out. Next Thursday, or a week from Saturday. Just not now.

 A search on Alan Campbell's name had turned up very little. Transient. Arrived nearly two months ago, but not yet filed for residential status. No known employment. No criminal record.

 Transient. Where did he live? Nothing.

 He changed his search parameters. Red Sector. Somewhere in Red Sector.

Lists of temporary residents. Names, a string of names that were meaningless, human, Narn, other. He could pound on every door. Check every room. He would find Michael sometime next year, probably just in time for Christmas. There had to be another way.

 He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Calm. Collected. Nothing else would do, nothing else would succeed.

 The logs. There was a tape. A tape running right now, if Garibaldi's curt message was correct.

Surveillance tapes ran in prescribed patterns. No one area was normally taped longer than a fifteen-minute period every few hours. Not every area was covered by security cameras, but most had at least a nominal coverage. Red Sector had to be more heavily covered than most. All the residential and transient areas were monitored. If Garibaldi wished, he could have programmed recording for a certain time, duration, area. Even -- although Sheridan had a moment's wish that it were not so -- extending inside quarters. It was completely computerized. A relatively simple rerouting, and the interior of a particular room could be quietly and thoroughly monitored for however long a period of time was required.

 Find the log. Figure out what's covered right now. You'll find the room in there, somewhere.

 It took eons of minutes to locate Garibaldi's surveillance subroutines, and decipher what was happening where. How did he keep track of all this? Surely he didn't watch it all. There weren't enough hours in the day.

Finally he convinced the computer to provide a list. Not current; this list had gone up at 2200 hours. But that was the right time area. This was it.

 He scrolled downward. Red Sector. Bingo.

 And slumped back in his chair.

246 simultaneous surveillance cameras in operation at 2200 hours this evening. Of those, 34 were in Green Sector. 31 in Gray. 124 in various other areas, including docking, medical, science and computer services. 12 externals.

 44 in Red Sector.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**    
He is lying on his back. He isn't quite sure how he has gotten here. Things have been gray for a while. Soft and silent and dark. Now there is light, and movement, and pain. The steady, horribly reassuring pain. He is still alive.

His arms are held up and out to the sides, restrained by something he can't see. His legs feel odd. Restrained, too, although in a different way. He can't tell what. When he moves, only the tiniest bit, he feels the sheet beneath him move, too. Pulling at his back, sticky cling. The feeling makes him nauseated again, sparks suddenly erupting before his eyes.

Motion, below him, and he brings his head up, ignoring the pain for a moment, shocked into movement. A misty figure. His legs moving up, there is something between them, holding them apart, pulling them into the air. A bar. Attaching to something above him, that he can't see.

 He can still feel the something inside him. Ever-present, but quiescent until now, now there is something pulling at the something already there, and he shrieks as the barbed something moves downward, tugging at his torn flesh on the way out, it feels as if his insides will come swooshing out after, a wet slide of guts.

A moment's gasping respite. And something new, oh, god in heaven, something else. Something cold, a smooth chill something, almost comforting but so terribly large, his heart makes a horrified lurch in his chest and consciousness wavers. Stabilizes.

 Burning. No, it isn't cold any longer, it burns, it stings, it is searing him, cauterizing his insides. The smell of spice in the air, drifting through the odors that he has almost gotten used to.

 He groans, and a sudden thrust makes him cry out, in a broken voice he no longer recognizes at all. A pop, and the smooth new something is in, and the burning is a conflagration, a wildfire inside him, acid.

 Hot wetness on his face. He isn't aware that he is crying. Crying because it hurts, because he has been afraid for so long now that he has lost control. The pale face at the end of the bed blurs. Fades. There is nothing else. He is alone with an angel of death. A demon in human clothing.

 "John." The word is garbled. He isn't sure it is the right word. It is all he can think now. "John. John."

 The blow jerks him out of his reverie. A name like a prayer still frozen on his shocked lips. His scream is high-pitched and shuddering.

john please john help me i don't want this i don't want to die not like this help me john

 

* * *

There were four possibilities.

 Sheridan rubbed his eyes impatiently. Four rooms that might hold Michael Garibaldi, or what was left of him.

He had narrowed his search considerably. Human only. None of these names were Alan Campbell. But there was one A. Campbell. He had doubts of that; there was a registered visitor by the name of Annaliese Campbell on station. The room was a double, and this A. Campbell had two registered children. Probably not it.

 An Arron Childress. Anthony Culp. The initials were right. Would this Alan Campbell resort to one of the oldest tricks in the book? Sheridan had no idea.

 And one room he simply felt odd about. Isolated. Rented the past seven days by someone named Julian Simons. But Mr. Simons had permanent quarters, uplevel. Mr. Simons had worked as a computer analyst for the past month, and he had arrived only two weeks before that.

Instinct. Prickle of suspicion. Why do you have a room rented, Mr. Simons? Expecting company? Or just for the hell of it? Why do you have a standing rental on a transient space when you have a quite comfortable apartment already? What do you use it for?

He printed the list on flimsy. Barely remembered to close down his work. Leave no trace, at least for now.

 He hit the corridor at a dead run.

 

* * *

There had been another period of darkness. All too brief. Now he is back, for however long it would be. Not very long.

 He has come here wanting to die. He wants to die now. Prays for it. For an end to this pain, this horrifying lingering ordeal.

 There was a moment he can faintly remember. When he realized something. Something very important. Now he can no longer quite remember it. It had something to do with dying, he is sure of it. But its meaning slips through his fingers. Trying to grasp smoke.

 New light. Blue, blinking. He tries to look, but moving is so terribly wrong, there are so many things wrong with moving, parts of him that can't move, parts that do but move badly, or hurt so much that he sags back where he was. Closes his eyes thankfully.

 Voices. There is more than one voice that he can hear, vaguely. He tries to listen. To hear past the thudding of his tired, gallant heart.

 Something garbled. "...out. Now."

 Then a chill, even voice that he knows. A voice he will never forget, a voice he knows is carved inside him permanently.

 "You're a fool. An idiot. I don't know why I ever hired you."

 More talking, but he can't get the trick of listening any longer, it takes so much effort and he feels so sleepy. So tired now. He wants to sleep, sleep forever.

 He believes he has slept, when something insinuates itself between his trembling thighs and jolts him back again. Something warm and fierce and pitiless. A hand on his cock, on his abused, agonized cock. He tries to cry out but there is no voice for it, and no energy. All he manages is a kind of shivering sigh.

 "You tricked me, didn't you?" The cold voice is clear, razor-sharp. Filled with rage, but also with satisfaction. Ugly sound. "You weren't just in this for yourself after all. Were you, Mr. Garibaldi?" A twist to the flesh he held, and Garibaldi manages a fairly decent shriek after all. Met with a laugh that sends a chill like icicles stabbing his gut.

 "It appears I will have to cut our little adventure short. Too bad; I was quite, quite enjoying myself." There is no hint of pleasure in his voice. Even now there is none. Especially now. "But I wouldn't want to disappoint you, my odd, perverse security chief. Not after all the trouble you took getting to me."

 His legs are released, arms. Needles of returning circulation, completely negligible pain in the face of the rest. Brisk, efficient hands under his arms, pulling him along. He can't stop the groan of agony. More, there cannot be more, he will not survive more. Is not sure he has survived now. But the pain reassures him. If he feels pain then he is still alive. Isn't he?

 "I would not want to deprive you of having another case for your files, Mr. Garibaldi." Calm, almost laughing voice. No trace of worry. Why is that? "Of course, I'm rather afraid you'll be your own case. You'll have to leave the actual solving of it to someone else. But that's what you wanted all along, isn't it? Am I not doing exactly what you wanted?"

 No, he wants to scream. No, I was wrong, I don't want this, I thought I did but I know now this isn't what I want, I don't want to die, I don't want this

 He is dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Crumpling because sitting up is now impossible, so far beyond impossible it is ludicrous. Something going around his neck. Something harsh and hard and prickly. Tightening. Tightening until he feels the ready crest of fear, familiar as breathing.

 "You'll be wanting to stand up now." The loop about his neck pulling, choking until he scrambles for footing, lurching to his feet. His legs are wavering, there is no strength in them. He sways, and the rope about his neck tightens again. Loosens as he fights for balance. He is suddenly nothing but concentration. His teeth meet cleanly through his lower lip, filling his mouth with the bright copper taste of blood.

 "I'm afraid I must leave you now, Mr. Garibaldi. Would that it could be otherwise. I did have so many other plans for our evening together." A wet, loathsome kiss on Garibaldi's mouth, and he shudders with disgust. "But I'll leave you with this one final trick to entertain you. Mind you don't move too much. And heaven forbid you should try to sit. The rope won't move, Mr. Garibaldi. And neither should you. If however you should decide to, then you will reach your objective. I will make it your choice."

 His hands are being tied behind his back. Tightly. He wavers once, and feels the ready bite at his neck. Chokes off a helpless cry.

 "Evening, Mr. Garibaldi. I know that we will not meet again. But I hope that you have found what you came for."

 He can see the colorless eyes. Dancing now with unholy satisfaction.

 And then they are gone, and he is alone.

 Weaving. He wills his tired legs to be strong, but there is nothing left. Staggering.

 

* * *

Trust your instinct, Johnny boy. Trust it. Don't worry about it. Trust.

 His mind was a gleaming blank. But for one clarion, trumpeting thought. Hurry. Find him now, now, find him before it's too late.

 Pelting down corridors. A rabbit's warren, he took corners wildly, skidding, at one point glancing off a metal edging and feeling the immediate wail of his bruised shoulder. Regained his footing and ran again. No one around, is there no one in this entire bloody section? But no, see the man there, moving out of the way. Bland, tired-looking. Ordinary, now wide-eyed at the vision of Captain Sheridan ripping past him. Sheridan paused, slid to a stop.

This could be him, couldn't it? As much as anyone else.

 Choices. Forward. Back. Follow, pursue. Forward, Michael, Michael, he might be there.

 Forward. This corridor. Lines of blank unrevealing doors. The end. There. At the very end.

His breath was coming in agonized burning gulps. Legs burning with adrenaline. This door, it must be this door, because I know that if I'm wrong, I will be too late to find him behind another. It must not be too late, it must not.

 The door was locked. Command override. Pause, and then the door cycled obediently open.

 And then he saw, and he knew, and there were no more questions.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**   _Ed elli a me: "Tu sai che 'l loco è tondo;_    
 _e tutto che tu sie venuto molto,_    
 _pur a sinistra, giù calando al fondo._

 _non se' ancor per tutto il cerchio vòlto:_    
 _per che, se cosa n'apparisce nova,_    
 _non de' addur maraviglia al tuo volto."_    
 

And he to me:"Thou knowest the place is round   
And notwithstanding thou hast journeyed far,   
Still to the left descending to the bottom,

 Thou hast not yet through all the circle turned.   
Therefore if something new appear to us,   
It should not bring amazement to thy face."   
    
 

 

* * *

It was dark in the little room. Dark, except for one light, circle of brilliance, illuminating -

 A body. A limp, unmoving body, silhouetted, dark -

 He heard a sound, and dimly recognized it as his own voice. Raised in a curdled shriek of anguish. No. No, no, noooooo

 Hands on this still body. Warm, still warm, yes, but please don't be dead, dear God, just don't be dead yet, Michael

 Harsh, strangled choke. Alive. Oh alive but not for long get this thing off him get it off now now

 He put his arms under Garibaldi's arms, lifted, easy motion, Michael was weightless, the burden was nothing at all. Slipping just a little, his hands slipping in sticky wetness. Hefted him into his left arm's grasp and used his right hand to pull the noose off.

 Garibaldi's breathing was the sound of a freight train, a hollow, terrifying rasp. Sheridan grimaced, lifted him in a grasp that felt so terribly right, so finally right, and carried him to the bed. Glanced at the stains. Dark, so much telltale sticky darkness on these sheets. He didn't want to lay him in the middle of it. Had no choice.

 He hadn't even begun to register what had been done to Garibaldi. A moment to try to take it in, pulling at the ropes that tied his wrists. A moment of stunned horror, and then Garibaldi was saying something, and there was nothing but him. His face, his words.

 "J -- John." Sheridan could hardly make out the broken, shredded relic of a voice. Knelt by the bed, leaned over. "John." It was as if Garibaldi were registering him for the first time. Unaware, until now, that he was even here. "Y-- You're here. You came."

 There were tears burning in his eyes. Tears of relief, and something like anger. "As soon as I could," Sheridan whispered, clearing his throat roughly. Reached out to cradle Garibaldi's cheek with his hand. "Everything's going to be all right now. I'll make sure of it. Okay?"

 Garibaldi coughed suddenly, a harsh paroxysm that left him curling into himself, face twisted with pain. "Michael, I've got to call Stephen," Sheridan hissed, throat tight with fear. So much, so terribly much had been done. Oh, God almighty, the blood, his chest, between his -- Brighter stains on the filthy bed. New stains. "You just hold on, Michael. Do you hear me?" He wanted to hold him. Didn't dare. Only made his voice as intent as he could, as reassuring as possible. "Hang on."

 He used a secure channel to call Franklin. An interminable ten-second wait before the doctor's puzzled voice came through. "Captain? What's up?"

 Oh, God, more than you can possibly imagine, Stephen. "Stephen. I need you to come to Red Sector. I need your help."

 "Is there a medical -"

 "Yes, damn it. A medical emergency. And one I don't want broadcast over the entire station. Hurry, and don't say a word to anyone. Not anyone, do you hear me?"

 The briefest of silences. Franklin, registering the terrible heat of the words. "Understood, Captain." Even, cautious reply. "I'll be there immediately."

 He gave Franklin directions. Returned to the bed. He saw Garibaldi shiver, and grabbed the blanket lying abandoned on the floor. Pulled it up over him, cover this up for now, there's nothing I can do. Franklin will be here. Everything will be all right. "Michael." Sheridan crouched by the bed again. Reached out to take Garibaldi's ice-cold hand in his own, chafed it mindlessly. "Michael, look at me. Just look at me. Everything's going to be fine. Help is on the way. Okay?"

 A full-body shiver, and Garibaldi coughed again. Cried out softly, eyes squeezing shut as some unseen pain hit him. Sheridan closed his eyes for a second, pulled the hand he held to his lips. Kissed it. "Why, Michael?" A whisper he knew Garibaldi couldn't hear. "Why did you do it? Oh, God, why did you let him do this to you?"

 Minutes spent kneeling here, furiously unable to do anything, nothing but watching and waiting and praying, please be all right, please. Minutes, and there was a chime from the door.

Franklin looked both puzzled and annoyed. Rumpled uniform, a medical case in one hand. "What's going on, Captain?" he asked, voice still a little thick with sleep.

 "Come in." Sheridan secured the door after him. Pulled him aside before he could see what was on that bed.

 "There's someone here who needs your help." Sheridan swallowed, loathing the words. "He's been -- assaulted, and injured. Badly injured."

 Franklin's look was narrow, and not fooled in the slightest. "Then we should have him moved to the Medlab," he replied evenly, frowning. "I can't -"

 "No. No Medlab. Not yet." Sheridan shook his head rapidly. "He won't want that. I know he won't."

 "That's for me to decide, Captain, you can't just -"

 "See for yourself."

 He led the way to the bed. Dark corner of the room, not touched by the one light source. Went quickly to Garibaldi's side. And looked back at Franklin.

 The dark eyes were wide with shock. "Garibaldi?" the doctor whispered, all bravado suddenly gone. "What happened?"

 Sheridan shook his head again, slowly this time. "A long story," he answered very quietly. "One we don't have time for now. Stephen, he's hurt. Badly. And when you see -" He broke off, and had to swallow again. "When you see," he continued, "I think you'll know why I'm being so -- cautious."

 He knelt once more by the bed. Touched Garibaldi's shoulder, lightest fingers. "Michael." Waited until the pain-dulled eyes opened, swivelled slowly to regard him. Sheridan tried to smile. "Stephen's here. He's going to have a look at you. Get you fixed up. Okay?"

 Blue eyes widening, widening until it seemed as if they must simply pop out of their sockets. The tired face now drawing into an expression of utter horror. "No. No, no." Twisting away from him, restless movements as if he would rise but couldn't, hissed in raw agony but still this frantic movement.

 "Michael." Sheridan reached out to touch his face, schooled his own features to calmness, hoping that it worked, that the love showed, the caring. Reaching around to shelter Michael from what was happening. What had to happen. "Stephen has to treat you. Everything will be all right. I'm here, Stephen's here. Let him do what he needs to do, and it will be over. All over." Crooning now, willing the trembling form in his arms to listen, to hear him.

 There were tears on Garibaldi's cheeks. Tears of pain, and fear. Some other kind of anguish that Sheridan didn't recognize, only knew the gut-level, wrenching sight of pain. "It hurts," Garibaldi whispered, almost inaudibly. "Don't want -- to hurt any more."

 "Oh, God, Michael, I don't want it to hurt, either." Sheridan felt the ready sting of tears in his own eyes. "If I could stop it I would. I swear it. But I can't. Please, Michael. Let Stephen help you, and I'll be right here. I'm not going any place. I'm here, and you're safe, and it's all over. All of it, Michael."

 He held Garibaldi's head in his arms as the blanket was removed. Talking, repetitive sentences that really didn't matter, it was the tone that held Michael still, that kept the shame and the fear at bay as Franklin exposed what had been done to him. Covered the sound of the doctor's horrified gasp. Sheridan didn't look back. Not yet. There would be time to see Garibaldi's injuries.

Turning him over. Feeling the shivers that ran constantly through the tense, pain-wracked body he held. The occasional, wet-sounding cough, disturbing. Continuing threnody of calm words, loving words, words Sheridan hadn't known he felt until he heard them emerging from his own lips. Words of encouragement, comfort. Of love, and friendship.

 Franklin's cautious fingers on his shoulder. "I have to do some work." Tight, tense words, hissed urgently. "And it's going to hurt him. Worse than he's hurting right now, a lot worse. You may have to hold him down."

 Sheridan nodded curtly at him. Turned his face back to Garibaldi. "Michael," he whispered, taking the cold hand once more. Leaning so that he could hear the quiet words. "It's going to hurt, okay? I'm sorry, but it is. Hold onto my hand. Hold on as hard as you can."

 He was unprepared for the sound Garibaldi made, as Franklin went to work. A quick glance over his shoulder, and he saw what was imbedded in Michael's body. And then Michael was screaming weakly, a terrible, teeth-gritting ululation that made Sheridan want to scream himself. Covering what he dared of Garibaldi with his own body, holding the spasming hand tight.

 "John." Franklin's quiet voice startled him badly; he flinched, and made his eyes turn away from the figure on the bed. Made himself see the doctor's outlined form, and the hand that beckoned him away. Sheridan gave a final squeeze to the cold hand he held, and pushed himself upright.

 "Captain." Sheridan thought perhaps he had never heard Franklin sound so grave. Or so distressed. The doctor's face was set in stony lines, rigid, composure utterly belied by the flickering, horrified light in his eyes. "I have to get him to Medlab. The extent of his injuries -" Franklin swallowed audibly. "There's more than meets the eye," he continued, after clearing his throat roughly. "Not to mention possible complications. The likelihood of complications, after such a violent assault."

 "But he won't want -"

 "To hell with what he wants." The doctor shook his head curtly. "This isn't just a few bruises, John," he continued tensely. "Michael's badly injured. Now I understand what you're saying to me. Believe me I understand." He swallowed over the words, looking faintly sick. "But you're going to have to trust me. I'll do what I can to make sure no one who doesn't absolutely have to know finds out about this. He has to go to Medlab. I'm sorry, John. I wish I could just give him an antibiotic and send him home. But Michael won't be going home for a while. He needs treatment, and the sooner the better."

 Sheridan stared at him for a moment, before forcing a tight, furious nod. "All right." Heavy, reluctant words. "Just help him," he whispered, and his voice cracked terribly on the last word.

 

* * *

Franklin was as good as his word. The PA and nurse he called to assist him were stoic, seemingly unfazed by the doctor's stern words of warning. Tell no one. Leave everything up to me. In a matter of minutes Garibaldi was bundled up, moved to a gurney, and taken uplevel. Morning quiet: few saw them, and those were not people who would necessarily understand the gravity of the situation. Even if they did, they couldn't know much.

He felt as if he were in the way, but it didn't matter. There was only Michael's cold, cold hand in his own, the bright terrified stare as they rode in a noisy lift, as they emerged into Blue Sector, a familiar corridor, sped toward the harsh light of Medlab. In the confusion of moving Garibaldi from gurney to treatment bed his grip was lost. Michael's anguished cry jolted him like electricity, and he fought his way back to his side, cursing, a jumbled mix of epithets that stopped as soon as he met blue eyes with his own.

 And in all the hubbub, the scramble to examine him, and see what had been done -- the terrible tally that Sheridan didn't want to know -- he kept his stance at the head of the bed. As out of the way as he could manage, but unbudging. "Look at me, Michael." He was smiling, though the smile felt as if it would tear the skin of his face. "Just look at me. Everything is going to be okay. Look at me. Concentrate on me. That's it. Yes. Look at me, Michael."

 "John." He saw tears spring into the hectic blue eyes, tears of pain as the blanket was removed -- dark, bloodied blanket, don't look, sweet Jesus, don't look at that, Michael. "John, I don't -- I thought I wanted it but I don't, don't want to die, please, I don't -" Coughing, brilliance of tears splintering into wetness on his drawn cheeks.

 "I know you don't. Oh, God, Michael, I know, I know." Smiling for real now, but there were matching tears on his own face. "I know you don't want to die."

 "You came for me." He could hardly understand him. Leaning over until Garibaldi's quivering lips were a bare inch from his ear. Broken voice rough and whispery. "Oh, you came. I thought I would -" He coughed again, an ugly sound, jagged and painful.

 There was a light touch on his shoulder, and he looked up with a snarl, eyes narrowed suddenly. "John." Franklin looked shaken, but steadfast. "You've got to let us work. You're in the way. Go home, go to your quarters, just let us get to work, okay?"

 "Like hell I'll go home," Sheridan spat, and closed his eyes for a second. "I'm sorry. I know. I'll -- I'll be outside." Franklin nodded, dark eyes suddenly sad.

 "Michael." Sheridan forced a smile again, not a very good one, not the way it sat uneasily on his face. Fooling no one. "Michael, I'll be right outside. They've got to have some room to work here, I'll only be-"

 "No." Shaking fingers reached up to grasp at his hands. Garibaldi's eyes were wide with terror. "Don't leave me, John. Don't leave, please don't leave me. Please."

 "Captain." Franklin sounded impatient, anxious.

"I'll -- be right here, Michael. I swear." He backed away a step. Two.

 "Noooooooo..." It should have been a scream, couldn't reach that but still a terrible sound. Horrible. Garibaldi lurching on the bed, and now it seemed as if there was red everywhere, red, blood, bright revealing blood.

 Franklin reached out to grab one flailing arm. With the swiftness of practice, he captured it and injected something. A something that took quick hold, quieting the screams, closing Garibaldi's wild blue eyes.

 Oh God I can't stand it I can't I can't

 He made it to the head just in time. Not bothering to close the door behind him, no time. Dropped on his knees and felt his stomach lurch, blessed thoughtless vomiting.

 

* * *

"Captain."

 He had been sitting too long; now the shock of Franklin's voice launched him mindlessly to his feet, and he staggered a bit. Tried to keep the blatant anxiety off his face, and failed completely. "Stephen," Sheridan snapped, steadying himself absently. "What's the word?"

 The doctor looked as tired as Sheridan felt: dusky skin tinged with grayish fatigue. He rubbed one eye distractedly, sighing. "Oh, he'll be okay, John." No reassuring smile. "He'll make it, no problem. A couple, three days here so I can keep an eye on him, make sure no secondary infections or other problems arise."

 Sheridan studied the drawn, impassive face for a long moment. "What aren't you saying?" he asked finally, softly.

 Franklin's dark eyes flickered away, and then reluctantly back. "John, Michael has been -- is," he corrected himself swiftly, "a friend of mine." His voice was tight with something dark and unnameable. "The things that were done to him -- Who would do this, John? What was he doing there? Was this an attack? Or was this something else?"

 He wanted to shrink away from Franklin's gaze. Heavy, unblinking eyes, filled with reluctant comprehension. "Stephen," Sheridan husked, throat suddenly almost too tight for words. "I don't know what -- I can't tell you wh-"

 "Never mind." Flat, emotionless interruption. "I'm not sure I want to know, anyway." Franklin sighed again, gustily. "I'll have a report for you in an hour or so. Your eyes only," he added meaningfully, and waited for Sheridan's nod before turning away.

 "Can I see him?"

 Franklin glanced at him. A single, penetrating look. "Of course," he replied softly. "He's a little doped up, though. He should sleep. Don't stay too long."

 Sheridan nodded rapidly. "Of course. I'll -- just look in on him. Thanks, Stephen."

 An answering, curt nod, before the doctor walked away. He's a good man, John, Sheridan's mind piped up at him. And you haven't fooled him for a second. He won't say anything, and he won't accuse anyone of anything. But he knows, and you're a fool if you think others won't figure this out, too, in time. If you don't start watching yourself, you'll be the one to clue them in, yourself. Remember control. Stop being such a fucking open book. Michael needs more than that.

 Franklin had put Garibaldi in a tiny, solitary treatment room. The best he could provide, private and secluded. Sheridan blinked at the harsh, cold light. No hiding anything in this glare. That was the point, wasn't it?

 He thought perhaps Garibaldi had gone to sleep after all. Lying on his side, a blanket pulled up over his shoulder. But the blue eyes opened at the sound of Sheridan's footsteps. Widened, and then warmed suddenly.

"John." His voice was horribly weak. Sheridan would have given a year's pay that moment, just to hear one steady, strong word from him. Normal voice, normal intonation. Not this lost, weak whisper of voice. But he was smiling a little, too, and oh God that was a sight he'd not thought to see, now. Perhaps ever.

He pulled a chair over by the bed. Grinning idiotically, this stupid mindless smile that came from nowhere, everywhere. "Michael," he whispered, and reached out to touch the blanketed shoulder gingerly. Searching for something to say, anything, it really didn't matter what. "Told you I'd be right outside," he continued finally. Aimlessly.

 A slow, tired nod. "Yeah. Thank you."

 Don't thank me, Michael. Don't thank me when I was too fucking late, and if I had just been a little faster this might not have happened.

 He must still be having trouble monitoring his own expressions; now Garibaldi frowned, and put a hand out to touch his own, clasping it with surprising strength. "It wasn't your fault, John," he said, clearing his throat roughly. "Don't beat yourself up over it, okay? Sometimes people do stupid things. It doesn't make it your responsibility. Just theirs."

 Sheridan paused, and snorted softly, smiling in spite of himself. "As soon as you get well enough, I'm going to be sorely tempted to kick the shit out of you for this, you know." His hand tightened convulsively on Garibaldi's, and no, he hadn't fooled him at all. But that was all right, too. "Why, Michael?" Putting every bit of intensity he still had into the question. "You didn't have to do this. Why'd you do it?"

 Garibaldi looked steadily at him for a moment. And then the blue gaze dropped, roving aimlessly. "I don't know," he whispered. Honest, for once, at least to Sheridan's ears. "I thought -- I thought it was what I wanted."

 "This?" He couldn't keep the utter disbelief out of his voice. Harsh, shaking. "Michael, do you think you deserve this? My God, I can't -"

 "No." Garibaldi shook his head vigorously. "No, it's not that. It's just -" He broke off helplessly. "I don't know, John." Quiet, haunted. "I know I didn't want it. What I do want -- I just don't know." He closed his eyes.

 "You're tired." Sheridan unlaced his fingers gently, laid Garibaldi's cool hand on the blanket. Gave one final squeeze. "Why don't you just rest, okay? Get some sleep. I'll come back after a while."

 "Promise?" Eyes open, frankly pleading.

 "Oh, I promise." He grinned. "They'll get sick of me before you're out of here. Trust me on that."

 A tiny nod. "Deal." Garibaldi yawned suddenly.

 He waited until he felt almost sure he slept. And crept out, as quietly as he could.

 

* * *

His quarters seemed horribly empty. Not that there was usually anyone else there; to the contrary, really. But tonight the two rooms seemed to echo. Old ghosts, whispering just out of earshot. And new apparitions as well. Malevolent spirits he couldn't see, but sensed, with the skin on the back of his neck prickling anxiously.

 It took two scotches to make him feel as if he might be able to go to bed. A third, before he actually felt sleepy. He stretched out on his bed, forced his eyes closed. And immediately saw Michael. Oddly it wasn't the beaten, exhausted Michael he'd just left in the Medlab. This was an earlier Michael. The look on his face: ecstatic, terrified, exhilarated. Afraid and excited, together.

 I got you into this. His eyes snapped open, and refused to shut again. Staring sightlessly at the dark ceiling. I got you into this, and this is where I took you. Straight into the hands of a sadist. A monster. Oh God, Michael, I'm sorry. I'm so everlasting, fucking sorry. It doesn't matter that I didn't know. How could I have known? But it doesn't matter.

 It's my fault. My fault that he's lying in a hospital bed. My fault that he went this far. How can I ever make up for this? How can I

 His commlink beeped, and he flinched on the bed, blinking the burn of useless tears away before reaching out to grab the link carelessly.

 "Sheridan. Go."

 "Captain." Susan Ivanova sounded as tired as Sheridan should be. "Sorry to disturb you. We have a little situation, and I thought you should be informed."

 Sheridan frowned. "What kind of situation?"

 He could almost see the second-in-command grit her teeth. "Somebody in Red Sector decided to get creative with the wiring," she replied tightly. "Torched one of the rooms. Containment caught the fire before it could spread too far, but we've got some folks out with smoke inhalation, that kind of thing."

 Red Sector. Red Sector. He couldn't make his mouth work suddenly. Opening and closing on useless words.

 "Captain? You there?"

 "Red Sector." Nothing in his head but those two words.

 "End of one corridor. Lucky thing, there; any closer in and we'd have a lot more casualties. Not from the fire, but damn that thing put out a lot of smoke."

 "I see." His voice felt raspy, uncomfortable. "Thanks for letting me know, Susan. You've got things under control, I take it?"

 "Of course. Franklin's treating a couple of people in Medlab. And Environmental's sealed the corridor off, until they find what caused the fire."

 They won't find it. It doesn't make any difference. I already know. "Good."

 "Sir? I -- There've been some rumors. Heard Garibaldi might have had an accident tonight. Do you know anything about it?"

 Vintage Ivanova. Straight shooting, all the time. Sheridan swallowed roughly. "He'll be okay, Susan. I'll fill you in on everything in the morning."

 "Understood, Captain." She didn't sound satisfied, but then she wouldn't. "I'll wrap up things around here and call it a night. Just wanted to keep you posted."

 "Thanks, Susan. See you in the morning."

 That was it. No chance of sleep.

 He put on a dressing gown, and made coffee. A generous splash of brandy made it bearable, and he settled onto the couch. He didn't bother raising the lights too far.

 You burned the room, you fucking son of a bitch. You burned it to erase the evidence, and you knew you had the time to do it because we were all thinking about Michael, and not you. And you burned it because you could. You wanted to show me you were one step ahead of me. One big fucking step.

 He took a gigantic swallow of the laced coffee and grimaced fiercely. I'm still going to find you. I don't care if I have to shut this station down for a month to do it. But I'll find you, and when I do I'm going to show you the meaning of the word discipline.

Your time's up, Alan Campbell. You planned everything out, and you did a fucking great job. Except for one thing. You should have killed Michael Garibaldi when you had the chance. Because he's still alive, and while he's alive there's somebody on this station who knows what you look like. Who you are. That's all I need. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**    
He awoke to bright light, and noise. People talking, motion, confusion.

 His first reaction was murky, senseless terror.

John. What is this, where am I, where did you go

 The light hurt his eyes. Made him flinch and try to look away, but motion hurt too, motion hurt very much. Agony, lancing through his body, no one originating place, he hurt everywhere, everywhere. He drew a breath to cry out, and heard only a faint, unmanning whimper.

 "Michael, hold still. Take it easy, okay? Don't move around."

 He knew this voice. Didn't he? From some time in the far distant past, from another lifetime. Crisp but warm, caring, concerned. He rolled his eyes, trying to see to the side without moving again, squinting in the glaring actinic light. It took a very long, stumbling moment to put a name with the dark, frowning face above him.

"Stephen." He thought he said the name out loud, but the doctor's face looked confused. Perhaps he hadn't. Garibaldi cleared his throat, and flinched at the raw pain of the action.

 "Just relax, Michael. Everything's going to be fine. You're in the Medlab. Everything's all right."

 A hand reached out to touch his shoulder, and he shrieked with unbidden, immediate terror. "No," a long drawn-out wail of horror that he could not seem to prevent, no matter how much he knew it made no sense. Don't touch me, don't get near me, I can't stand it.

 He wanted to sleep, suddenly. Close his eyes and go away, someplace very, very far away, where there was no light and no pain and no memory at all.

 

* * *

It had somehow become later. Awakening to pain and stiffness and then the crowding flood of memories, sharp, knifing into his belly.

 He shut his eyes. Wanted to weep, but there was nothing behind his dry, burning eyes. Nothing behind his closed lids but photographic images, visions that made his stomach turn, that brought ready bile to his throat. He didn't know he was going to be sick, couldn't have predicted it. Simply lay there and took absent note of the nurse's shocked exclamation. It didn't matter. Didn't matter that he was lying with his cheek in something that smelled terrible, or that someone moved him presently, pushed him gently aside while the smelly things disappeared, replaced with soft clean things.

 After a time there was a bit of awareness. Someone here, a couple of someones. He opened sticky eyes and looked up. Fought for a smile.

 Sheridan had tears in his eyes, of all things. How odd. "Michael," he said, and the sound of his voice was like a drug, relaxing, calming. "How are you doing? Did you get some rest?" Other, completely pointless questions; Sheridan's face said he knew they were pointless but their point was only to let him hear his voice, bask in that one comfort.

 "John." It hurt to speak, the echo of jagged pain jolting through him. He swallowed.

 "Don't try to talk." Another smile. "You need your rest. I just wanted to check in with you, say good morning."

 Morning. It was morning. Hours he couldn't account for, had no idea where they had gone. Sleeping. He felt drugged still, the telltale lassitude of a sedative hangover. Not enough to make the pain go away, just enough to keep him quiet.

 "How --" He had to whisper, and Sheridan leaned over immediately, face lined with concentration. "How'd I get here?"

 "We brought you here. Last night, after --" He watched Sheridan try to think of a way to say it, and fail completely. "After," he said finally, simply. The amber eyes were full of a remembered something, a terrible something. Something Michael was suddenly glad he didn't remember, himself. "Stephen gave you something to make you sleep."

 Something odd was happening to Sheridan's face now. Like a chameleon mask, he thought distantly. Morphing his well-known features into something else. Another face, a face he didn't want to see. Not now, not ever again. Please God, never again.

 He closed his eyes tightly.

"Michael?" Nothing but concern in Sheridan's voice, anxiety soaked with old fear.

 "Want to sleep."

 Sleep. He dove for darkness, like a swimmer after an elusive pearl. Found it, embraced it with utter gratitude.

 

* * *

He was late reporting in to C&C. Time for a fast shower, a clean uniform. The quick visit to Medlab. Thinking up hurried excuses for himself, for Garibaldi. The medical leave notification he took care of swiftly, in his quarters. That much he could do. The rest? Well, that would depend, wouldn't it? On how many questions people asked. How persistent they became. He hoped for Michael's sake that they wouldn't be too dogged. They didn't want to know, not really.

 Ivanova was the first hurdle. Negotiated with alacrity. She took the news of Garibaldi's injuries with an intent frown. Concern, that warmed Sheridan's chilled heart. Was Michael okay? What had happened? This was where acting began. Play the role, John. Dish out the party line, and hope like hell she buys it. If she does, the chances are good others will, as well.

 So he told the story he'd concocted with Franklin. An attack, a fairly brutal beating. It would work. Enough to put Garibaldi out of commission for a little while, without saying what sort of attack it really was.

She went with it. Suspicious, but she didn't press. Nodded, expressed her concern. And mentioned something that startled Sheridan all over again.

 "Who's going to fill in for the chief while he's down?"

 He blinked at her, and drew a deep breath. "Zack, I suppose," he replied.

 Ivanova nodded briskly. "Good choice, sir. He's a good man."

 "Yeah. I'll, ah - I'll let him know soonest. Thanks for reminding me."

 "No problem." She gave him one last uncertain, dissatisfied look. But she said nothing else. Left him alone, finally.

 He holed up in his office. Hoped that nothing big happened today. His schedule was miraculously light today. Let it remain so.

 Allan responded quickly to his query. As if he were waiting for it. As he probably was.

 "Zack." Sheridan produced a brief smile of greeting, fading almost immediately. "I don't know if you've heard about Chief Garibaldi. He's going to be out of commission for a little while."

 "Yes, sir." Allan's face was oddly composed. Tight. Well, he was Garibaldi's friend, as well as his second. It was only natural.

 "I'll need you to fill in for him, while he takes a little leave."

 "No problem, sir."

 Sheridan blinked once. This wasn't the Zack Allen he had so briefly known. This was a professional, hard-edged stranger. "There will need to be an investigation," Sheridan said slowly, carefully choosing his words. "Garibaldi was attacked last -"

 "Yeah. I know."

 He stared at the screen. "You do?" Slow, uncertain words.

 Allen granted him a tight nod. "Found something in this morning's logs, sir," he enunciated crisply, the same cold voice. "One of the night surveillance tapes. Think you might want to have a look at this, sir." His tone was professional. The blazing intensity of his stare was most certainly not. Furious. Anguished.

 The tape. Oh God the tape.

 Sheridan felt his features hardening. Frozen, comprehending shock.

"Understood, Zack," he stated distantly. "I'll be there in ten."

 

* * *

He could vaguely recall having been tired, quite recently. Just the faintest flash of memory, burned to ashy cinders in the flames of the new anger and horror that energized him now. Seething, contained but only barely: the knowledge of how close to the edge he was somehow didn't frighten him. Only brought a thin, lethal smile to his face, an expression that cleared hallways before his stolid stride, that shut mouths that had opened in greeting, only to falter, stammer into silence.

 Your backup worked, Michael. Even if you were dead right now, I'd know who did it. We'd all know. You did a hell of a job. You son of a bitch, it worked.

 He wanted to laugh, suddenly. Garibaldi was alive, okay, or at least something like okay. And there was evidence. Cold, concrete evidence, of the type that most prosecutors would cream their pristine uniforms over.

The unholy happiness of Sheridan's expression didn't escape Zack Allen, either. The acting security head gave him a startled look, before handing him the tape crystal.

"I assume it's all here." Sheridan darted him a look, almost grinning with triumph.

 There was no answering expression on Allen's face. "All we need, yeah, Sir," he answered, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I -- I didn't watch the whole thing. Just enough to figure out it was the Ch -- Garibaldi."

 "Fine." Sheridan palmed the tape deftly. "Mind if I use your office for a few minutes?"

 Allen frowned at him. "You're going to watch it?" he asked incredulously, and then shook his head quickly. "Yes, sir, go right ahead. It's all there." He swallowed audibly. "In living Technicolor."

 Sheridan was still grinning slightly as he dropped the tape crystal into Garibaldi's office reader. All I need is one look at that face. One look. A positive ID. And then Alan Campbell is, in the words of my late great-grandfather, Paleozoic.

 The good mood lasted about ten more seconds. And then it was suddenly gone. In its place was something that somehow hadn't registered until now. Something monstrous, that cemented Sheridan to the chair. That froze him in place, that turned his tightly clasped hands into ice.

 Eventually a very quiet, thin voice in his mind spoke up. You should have known. How could you think you could watch this and not really see what was happening? Did you think it would just be another vid? Something to check, and then toss into a file cabinet someplace? Send Zack out to make an arrest, and go home to tea and fucking crumpets? Idiot. Idiot.

 He watched.

 The tape wasn't particularly good quality. None of the securecam vids were. Grainy, plagued with occasional snowy feedback problems and other abnormalities. The sound was terrible.

 It was, however, quite sufficient to the task.

 After a few minutes, he wanted to turn away. Wanted to shut off the viewer, take the crystal and hurl it away, hear it smash against the far wall. Wanted to weep, to vomit, to bellow his horror and his grief until his throat bled.

 At first everything he watched had an oddly familiar feel. The dance of dominance, the choreographed movements of touching, kneeling, possession. He felt the tug of recognition.

 But this was different. Subtly at first, and then more and more obvious. Twisted, a cruel, sadistic caricature of the lifestyle he had first learned to admire and embrace so many years before.

 He wanted to scream at the picture. At the man who walked into the room, who stood stock-still in the grip of someone who was faceless, whose visage was dim and unremarkable. Get out get the fuck out. But of course he didn't. Making himself naked, and here was this firm, familiar body, so terribly whole and unmarked, and then someone else fondling him, someone else putting cold careless hands on him.

 Watching as Michael was bound. The man -- Campbell -- suspended him with ropes; it was a pose calculated for maximum vulnerability, and Sheridan could hear Michael's harsh, locomotive chug of breathing, fearful. There was an answering taped laugh, like the scrape of metal on glass. Sheridan's belly clenched at the sound.

 A whipping like none he himself had ever administered. Nothing he had ever witnessed. Such a depth of calculated cruelty, a loathsome sort of satisfaction on the maddeningly unseen face. Contrast with Garibaldi's contorted, all-too-clear features. An almost rapturous look on the chiseled face: more pain than he had found at Sheridan's hands, so much more. The look of a man who has realized a dream, or met a nightmare.

 And then he heard Michael Garibaldi's first taped scream, and all distance was gone, everything was immediate, now, this moment. His hands balled into fists. Later he found maroon half-moons in his palms, where his nails had bitten deep. He didn't register it at the moment.

 Raping him. Raping Michael, holding his quivering hips with hands that didn't care if they left livid bruises, entering him and laughing at the sound of Michael's pain. He could see Campbell's face now. The information he had needed, oh yes, this pale, grinning face, these horribly normal features.

turn it off now off stop this stop

 This feeling now. No longer helpless raging but grief, terrible clawing agony in his belly as he sat watching the destruction of trust, the invasion of a body. Garibaldi's voice: shuddering, pleading with him to stop, but there was no stopping, until the ravenous, bleak face contorted, a last greedy thrust that brought a howl breaking from Michael's hoarse throat.

 Dimly Sheridan registered the time index on the tape. No more, this had to be it, it could not go on but he knew it did, knew because he'd seen the results, hadn't he?

 He wasn't aware until later, of the tears that stood on his cheeks, helpless useless tears as he saw what was inserted inside Michael's body -- a brush? a dildo? both? -- as he saw the blood that began and didn't end, just kept arriving, more and more until Sheridan's own body was tensing with unbidden sympathy. This couldn't be Michael's voice. This shivering, shattering rag of a voice, this audible agony. No. No.

 He heard a sound, nothing on the tape but this one from his own throat. Wordless, quiet, unrecognizable. Not this. Michael's pain-twisted face. Don't fuck him there, don't do this. Not this mouth that I have kissed, this mouth that I have grown to love. His stomach lurched. You're killing him, you tried to kill him didn't you and he beat you he made it you fucking son of a bitch he made it. The back of his throat was filled with acid. Echo of Michael, Michael on the floor, Michael's muscles bunching spasmodically.

 Moving Michael to the bed. Tying him again, oh not this pose this terrible open invitation no. He wanted to close his eyes, but there was no stopping this, no pretending no lying to himself. His eyes felt horribly dry. Caught, mesmerized. You know what he's going to do don't you don't you

 The first lash seemed to connect with his own skin. His testicles drawing up, a cold spear of agony lancing through his groin. And then he heard Michael cry his name, Sheridan's name. And what had been horrible sympathy, terrible anger, shared pain, was suddenly agony. Raw, ripping through his chest as if he'd been stabbed, down into his gut, pain so intense he believed for a moment he had been eviscerated.

 You were calling for me. Oh sweet Jesus you were calling for me because you knew it even then, you knew you didn't want this and you called to me to save you and I was too late to stop it. Too late to do anything but pick up the pieces and tell you how incredibly, stupidly sorry I was. Oh, God, Michael, you needed me and I wasn't there. I tried but I wasn't there.

 He didn't remember stopping the tape. Only burying his face in his bleeding hands, pressing his palms against his own eyes savagely until they hurt, until he actually had a real hurt that could mean something.

 He had no idea how long he stayed there. Sitting in Garibaldi's chair, a chair that knew the imprint of a familiar rump, in an office that held Michael's things, Michael's profession. The unspeakable record of Michael's fate.

 Finally he sat up. Very slowly, and very carefully. Took the tape crystal out, and stowed it in his pocket. There was a tiny washroom, off to the right, and he used it to wash his face carefully. Absently noting the wounds in his hands. The redness of his eyes.

 He stood before the small mirror for a little while. And when he turned to go, the pain had become something else.

 Rage.

 "Zack." Sheridan had a moment's bitter satisfaction at Allen's flinch, the wide eyes that turned his way and widened even further. "I'm going to need your assistance," he continued evenly. A very steady voice. Oh, a very cold and even voice. "You and one of your men. Someone you trust."

 A slow nod. "Of course, sir. Richbourgh just came on duty; he's -"

 "Fine, Zack. I trust your judgement." Sheridan smiled brilliantly, and relished the sight of Zack Allen's blanched cheeks.

"You know who did this, don't you, sir?"

 "I do."

 "Who, sir? And for God's sake, why?" Allen sounded almost plaintive.

 Sheridan shrugged minutely. "Why? Who knows? His name is Alan Campbell."

 A tight nod. "I'll get right on it. We'll --"

 "You won't find him," Sheridan interrupted brusquely. "Not that easily. But cover all the bases." He smoothed his jacket. "Let me know what you find, if anything." He turned on his heel to go.

 "Sir? What are you gonna do?"

 The smile on his face broadened, until it felt like it would split his cheeks into a thousand cold, triumphant pieces. "I have a few theories of my own, Zack," Sheridan stated, looking back over his shoulder. "A few markers to call in. Just stay ready. We might have to move pretty quickly."

 "Consider it done, sir."

 Sheridan nodded once, and left the office at a brisk, controlled walk. Be ready to stand around, Zack. Be ready to take a long slow walk around the block. Because when I find him, I plan to have a little visit with Mr. Alan Campbell. A chat, if you will. And when I finish, you can have what's left.

 If there is anything.

 The smile that twisted his face felt utterly, madly joyful.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**    
He really didn't care that his anger showed. It actually made things a little easier. No one got in his way. No one said anything. It was all really very simple.

 Green Sector was quiet, as usual. No one shouted, in this area of the station. At least not in the corridors, where anyone could overhear. It was very neat, and decorative, and completely innocuous. Admirably suited to a place where many races had to meet, and haggle, and otherwise attempt to overcome their myriad differences.

 Ironic, that he brought this particular problem to an area that specialized in interspecies conflicts. This was a purely human situation.

 This early, the queues hadn't begun in the business office. Sheridan brushed past the protesting receptionist, and took the right hallway. Zsuzsa's door was open. He rather thought she'd remember to keep it closed after today.

 He didn't bother giving her a chance to say anything. "I need a word with you," he announced crisply. "In private," he added, with a glacial smile.

 Szeci nodded warily, and spoke a code into the air. The door closed, the sound immediately followed by the obedient hum of a privacy shield. Nice, these diplomatic areas. The privacy shields got a lot of use.

 "What can I do for you, Captain?" Zsuzsa Szeci was dressed in navy today: perfect suit, the touch of lace at the collar like a pure white exclamation point. Not at all alarmed, nor to all appearances angered by Sheridan's brusque appearance.

 "There's a situation, Zsusa." He looked steadily at her, willing his anger not to show. "But you may have already heard. The grapevine is anything if not efficient."

 Her dark eyes narrowed, and he knew he'd called it right. He could almost hear her switching gears: not an official call. Professional, but not official. Her smile was tiny and utterly humorless. "I've heard. I take it that's why you're here."

 "Where is he?"

 "I don't know." No pretense of confusion, a fact for which he might even thank her, later. Much, much later. "I honestly don't know, John."

 "Damn it, that's not good enough." Sheridan blew a frustrated breath, and took a few steps closer to her desk. "He broke the code, Zsuzsa," he hissed savagely. "God knows how many times he's already done it. How many others he's mutilated, in the name of what we do. But this time it's one of ours. This time it's personal."

 "Garibaldi." A matched pair of faint red blotches had appeared in her pale cheeks. "How is he?"

 "How do you think?" he retorted. "He was nearly killed. Would have been killed, if I hadn't gotten there in time. We have to stop him," he continued, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk and leaning forward. "It's not just Michael. It's who we are. It's time for us to take some responsibility, Zsuzsa."

 She didn't move, but he could sense her backing away. "It was Garibaldi's choice," she replied levelly. One lacquered fingernail tapped restlessly on the surface of the desk, before she noticed it and stopped. "It wasn't against his will. It wasn't rape, John."

 "You're hedging, and you know it. He didn't want it. Not what that -- person did. He didn't want it, and you know it."

 "I can't do anything, John. Much as I might like to, my hands are tied. If you'll pardon the phrase."

 He stared at her for a long span of seconds, saying nothing. Then he reached into his pocket. "I have something I think you should see," he stated slowly.

 He watched her watch a bit of the tape. Saw what little color was in her pale face trickle away, leaving her suddenly aged and sick-looking. The sight made him vengefully happy.

 Szeci reached out and stopped the viewer with a savage stab of one finger. "I -- I'm sorry, John." Her voice was husky, rattled. "I can't -- There's nothing I can do."

 He nodded crisply. "You're part owner of the club, aren't you?" She didn't have to nod; they both knew the truth. "So you have a vested interest in what goes on there, don't you?"

 "Of course," she said guardedly, eyes narrowed.

Sheridan leaned one hip on the desk, lacing his fingers together. "Sinclair knew about it, when he was here. He turned a blind eye, but you were never sure whether or not he'd let you keep operating. When he left, and you heard I would be replacing him, it was a relief, wasn't it? One of us. Sheridan's one of us. He'll watch out for us. Isn't that what you thought, then?"

 She said nothing, glaring impotently at him. It didn't matter that she already knew what he was going to say. He'd say it anyway.

 "I broke a few rules for you, Zsuzsa. Maybe because I'm in the lifestyle myself, when time permits. Or maybe because I believe in freedom for all, no matter what your kink. I'm not sure, myself. But I let you keep going, and I even visited myself, from time to time. I made sure the inspection papers were sent through, no questions asked. I arranged for a little sleight of hand, when shipments were due, or certain important visitors.

 "That can change, you know." He smiled slowly. Lethally. "In a single heartbeat. Because this kind of behavior --" he made a gesture in her direction -- "is not what we're about. It's about responsibility, Zsuzsa. We take care of our own. But we also watch out. And when someone crosses the line, we don't let them get away with it. There's a price to be paid. The day we stop paying that price is the day we lose the right to top anyone. Ever. That is the day we sell our honor and become as monstrous as Alan Campbell."

 He waited for a minute, letting her digest that. And then forged onward, inexorable as lava. "Michael's someone we know," he said intently. "He's a friend. A colleague. Isn't he, Zsuzsa?" She nodded mutely. "And what's more, he's someone you respect. Perhaps even care for, in your own way. Isn't he?"

 "He's --" She visibly searched for words, looking pale and shocked. "Yes," she answered finally, quietly. "Yes, he is. All of those things."

 "You saw the tape. You saw what Campbell did to him. And you heard him say no. What more do you need?" Sheridan sighed gustily. "I don't want to close you down. I don't want to threaten you. But I will, if you don't step up and do your part. Help me find Alan Campbell, Zsuzsa. Help me bring a little justice to bear. That's all I'm asking. And if you're the person I think you are, you know I'm right. If those who submit to us can't trust us to help protect them, who can they trust? They give us the power, and it is ours to use. Or abuse. And when one of us abuses that power, we are the ones who should make them pay the price.

 "Don't let this go. Help me, Zsuzsa. Help me in this."

 She was still for a very long moment after he wound down. Avoiding his eyes, studying her blood-red fingernails intently. Finally he heard her draw a shaky breath. "I underestimated you, John," she murmured, faint color appearing in her wan cheeks. A tiny, unreadable smile played about her lips. "I thought you were just a dilettante. I didn't think you took this seriously. Now I know I was mistaken. Richard chose you wisely. You've just shown me nobility. And you've shamed me."

 Her eyes flickered up to stare at him. "I'll do what I can. I can't promise you anything. I wasn't lying when I said I didn't know where Campbell is. But there are some who do, and they'll tell me. I will make sure of that."

 Her voice was very steady, and suddenly Sheridan had absolutely no doubts that she would indeed make sure of it. In whatever way she could. Her resources were very likely vast.

 "Thank you." He heard the sudden tremor in his own voice, and both resented and welcomed it. "Let me know when you've found something."

 She nodded curtly. Already her eyes seemed a bit distant. Calculating.

 He didn't want to know. He waited for her to release the privacy screen, and left without another word.

 

* * *

He had to wait. As frustrating as that was, there was nothing else he could do. He went back to C&C, and his neglected duties. No one spoke directly to him. A look at his thunderous, impatient face and people turned away, ducking behind monitors, suddenly becoming extremely busy with their work. Even Ivanova made none of her usual greeting chitchat. It was silent and uncomfortable, and Sheridan escaped almost immediately to the sanctuary of his office.

Work was nearly impossible, but he tried. Sorting through reports he'd missed, trying to maintain some sort of professional facade. He knew it wouldn't work, but he had to try. Even if crackling nerves made it almost impossible to concentrate on mundanities, he had to try.

 It was a bad day to mediate. He read a few reports, made instant, harsh decisions, and then realized he was in no kind of shape to think his way logically through any disputes. It took a few curt calls to postpone the clamor of messages he found on his desktop. The angry words didn't register at all. He didn't care, at the moment. Docking schedules, inspection results be damned. It could all wait. Wait until hell froze over, as far as he was concerned.

 By the time the call came, he had managed to table most of the day's outstanding business. Delayed only briefly, but long enough to free him up for what was to come. The thing that tingled in his fingers, the prospect that made his head feel as if it were filled with a thousand, million buzzing bees. The only thing that really mattered today. Alan Campbell.

 Szeci's call was brief and to the point. A location, a warning. She didn't wait for him to thank her. That was all right. He hadn't planned to. Not yet, at any rate.

 He called in Ivanova, and gave her her instructions. He was taking a bit of personal time this afternoon. Unless a true emergency arose, she was not to contact him until he gave her word. He gave her time to nod, but not to ask any questions. Not that she looked like she wanted to know.

 He took a detour past his quarters, to change out of his uniform. Something inconspicuous would be best. Something funereal, perhaps. He chose black, and felt stronger.

 Zack Allen answered his call so quickly, he had to have been waiting for it. Excellent. No delays.

 

* * *

Szeci's information was concise and to the point. It was almost laughably easy. Sheridan grinned, fingering the PPG stowed at his hip. I hope you struggle, you son of a bitch. I hope like hell you resist arrest. Just give me an excuse, and I will be more than happy to erase your very existence from the galaxy.

 He gave only the briefest of instructions to Zack's team. Support only. Sheridan would handle everything that needed handling. Allen didn't so much as blink at the orders. His smile of agreement was nearly as glacial as the one Sheridan felt painting his own features.

 Campbell's living quarters were located in Red Sector. Unlisted, uneverythinged. There was no record of his arrival on the station, nor of his paying rents or utility bills. A pretty setup. Alan Campbell was as invisible as it was possible to be on Babylon 5, and still conduct business.

Sheridan gave only a moment's thought to the possibility that Campbell might not be in his quarters. If his suspicions were correct, Campbell was making ready to bail right now. Knowing his latest victim was a high-ranking member of command support, he'd be feeling the hot water. Cutting his losses. But he wouldn't be banking on Sheridan's own sources.

 Sheridan called his entourage to a halt in the corridor adjacent to Campbell's quarters. "Zack, you're with me. The rest of you, hold here. Try to keep a handle on traffic while we're in there. I don't want any civilians caught in the crossfire, if we can help it." He loosened the strap holding his PPG, and nodded to Allen. "Let's go." If Allen thought anything about leaving their backup behind, he kept it to himself. Maybe looking forward to a little more personal revenge nearly as much as Sheridan himself.

 The corridor was mercifully deserted. Campbell's quarters were located near the end of the hallway, an unmarked door that looked absurdly unassuming. Well, what had Sheridan thought? There would be some kind of huge neon sign flashing "Murdering Sadist Located Here?" "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here?" Maybe that would be appropriate, come to think of it.

 Sheridan smiled again, and hit the door buzzer.

 He had time to ring once more, before the door opened. Revealing a slight, well-dressed man in his late twenties. Not Campbell. "Yes?" The voice was weary, petulant to match the self-conscious twist of his features.

 "I'm looking for Alan Campbell," Sheridan pronounced evenly. Kept smiling. "I understand these are his quarters."

 "And who are you?"

 Sheridan blinked. "I'm Captain John Sheridan. And I think you know that. Now. Mr. Campbell."

 The faintest trace of uneasiness on the man's too-perfect features. "He's not in at the moment," he said haughtily. "And I'm very busy, so if you don't mind --"

 "Oh, but I do mind. I mind very much." He grinned, and took a step inside.

 "You can't do this!" the young man blustered, face going red. "Where is your search edict? You can't just barge in here and --"

 "Search order? Oh, you want a search order." Sheridan paused, and nodded slowly. "Well, I'll tell you what. I'll get a search order all signed and ready to go. When I'm all done here. In the meantime, as commander of this station, I'll do as I damn well please. And I please to see Alan Campbell. Am I clear?"

 "This is illegal! This is a violation of my rights as a private citizen! I demand to see some kind of --"

 The punch landed quite solidly, and the young man went wonderfully quiet, crumpling with a kind of boneless grace on the thick carpet.

 "You could have just had me arrest him, you know," Zack murmured, looking down at the unconscious man.

 "You can arrest him later. I'm sure he's guilty of something."

 The apartment was very quiet. Sheridan padded through the living area, and resisted a sudden urge to shout "Come out, come out, wherever you are." His PPG was in his hand without his remembering exactly when he drew it. Solid, a wonderfully lethal handful of metal.

 "Alan Campbell?" He kept his voice steady, not revealing the almost unspeakable eagerness he felt. "This is Captain John Sheridan. Security has been alerted, and your quarters are surrounded. Show yourself."

 There was no answer. Still, it was too damn still. Was the assistant-catamite-whatever actually telling the truth?

 Sheridan glanced at Zack, who now had his own PPG out at the ready, and entered the bedroom cautiously. Nothing. Not a fragging thing. The bedroom was cleaned out, no sign of someone leaving in a hurry, but definitely not a place where anyone planned to return any time soon.

 "We lost him." Zack sounded desolate, standing with his weapon sagging bonelessly in his hand. "God damn it, Cap'n. We lost him."

 "Not necessarily." Sheridan's heart sped up. He turned to glare at Allen. "He wasn't that far ahead of us. Not with his assistant still here. My guess is he didn't leave long before we arrived. Which means --"

 "--We might still catch him at the docking area," Allen finished with a quick nod. "On it, sir." He turned crisply, already shouting into his commlink.

 The trip to the terminal area was more of a race than anything else. Sheridan waited a handful of seconds for a lift to arrive, and then broke for the stairwell, cursing steadily and frantically under his breath. Stairs, and then more hallways, startled people who shrank out of the way, wondering at the sight of the station commander pelting by like his shoes were on fire.

 He could feel his control slipping. With every pounding step his grip loosened, until he was panting as much from rage as lack of breath. You're not fucking getting away, you son of a bitch. Not yet. Not until I've had my way with you. Not until you've fucking paid for what you did. An image popped into his brain, out of nowhere: himself, running as he ran now. One blazing thought in his head, to find Michael, save him, rescue him from the man that might even now be making good his escape. Sheridan nearly tripped as a surge of new fury blasted through him. Always chasing you, you fucker. This is the last fucking time. I've fucking had enough.

 The terminal was crowded with the usual milling tourists, businesspeople. Sheridan dodged a woman with a baby in her arms, and heard an outraged squall as he passed. Didn't even pause. Skidded to a halt in front of a wide-eyed security man. "Pending departures," Sheridan croaked, and the guard pointed rather than spoke.

 Two ships ready for departure. Sheridan motioned Zack at one and chose the other at random, eyes already darting restlessly from face to face. Here. He had to be here. Either Zack would get him, or Sheridan would. They had to. They couldn't lose him. Not now.

 People were shrinking away from him, looking alarmed. It didn't matter in the slightest. All that mattered was the face he wasn't seeing. No features he'd memorized as the contents of the tape burned their permanent place in his brain. He pulled one man around, you, it's you, fucking bastard. He snarled with furious disappointment as the innocent human shrank away from him.

 He fought his way through the line, and reached the end before stopping. Breath coming in painful whoops, his heart pounding so fast it was physically painful. And he turned around.

 There. Oh, there.

 He had launched himself before thinking about it. A sudden crest of anger so strong it seemed to give him wings, flying through the air to tackle one person, send him crashing to the deck. Sheridan rolled, and then righted himself again, no time for Campbell to collect himself and run, can't allow that. No fucking way.

 He grasped Campbell's collar and pulled him upright. And then looked at him for the first time face-to-face.

 What a plain, average face, to house a monster. Not even worthy of a second glance. Sheridan grinned horribly. "Think you could get away?" he hissed, giving Campbell a ruthless shake, grinning more as he saw the man's wide, startled eyes. "Huh? You thought you could run again, didn't you? Well, fuck you. Fuck if I'll let you get away this time."

 His vision narrowed, his senses tuned until all he could see was Campbell's ordinary, hated face. The pound of the blood in his own ears. And a kind of high-pitched whine, like a mosquito. "Your time's up, you son of a bitch," Sheridan grated, and let go of Campbell's collar long enough to let the first blow loose.

 A part of him shrieked with silent joy. Let loose at last. The part of him no one saw, the part of him he controlled at all times. Now freed, and it felt good, oh God, it felt so unbelievably good. For Michael, he wanted to scream. For taking what was mine and trying to destroy it. I want to make you pay. Pay and pay until there's nothing left but pulp under my feet, nothing. Very distantly he could hear voices. His own voice, shouting, the voices of others. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was the flesh that gave beneath his gleeful fists. The cartilage that bent and snapped under the weight of blows that sang with certainty.

 There were hands, suddenly. Unwelcome, hated hands, dragging him away, and he fought back, cursing violently. Until a single voice penetrated. "Captain! For Christ's sake, stop it! Stop!"

 He struggled once more, mindlessly. And then paused. Looked around.

 God. What a mess. Campbell lay sprawled on the deck, groaning. There was a ring of people, staring with wide, shocked eyes. And Zack, one cautionary hand still locked powerfully on Sheridan's arm. "Take it easy, Cap'n," Allen whispered, looking suddenly miserable. Unsure whether to exert his authority or simply let Sheridan go.

 Sheridan twitched his arm away, and shook his head rapidly a couple of times. Oh God, lost it, he'd lost it. Right here. Even now the urge to hurt, to maim -- to kill -- made his hands shake like his palsied grandfather's. "Take him away, Zack," he whispered hoarsely. Staring at his trembling hands. Trembling, blood-smeared hands. "Get him out of my sight, before --" He stopped, and closed his eyes.

 At some point Zack must have obeyed, because a minute or so later, when Sheridan looked around again, Campbell was gone. Along with the bulk of the watching crowd. Sheridan blinked, and looked around in faint confusion.

 And saw Zack Allen, standing off to the side.

 "All taken care of, sir," the acting security chief said carefully. There was a curiously older look on his face right now. Wary, no longer shocked. Just cautious. "Campbell's on his way to lockup. It's a done deal."

 Christ. A done deal. What was done? What was this, except the fact that he had nearly killed Alan Campbell with his own bare hands? His stomach churned suddenly, acid burning like wildfire in his belly. Is this why I hate him so much? Because he's just like me? Because when I look into those empty eyes I see myself? Sheridan flexed his hands and felt the wail of bruises, the sharp pain of his split knuckles.

 Oh, God. I nearly killed him. And now part of me wishes I hadn't, and part of me still wants to finish the job.

 Sheridan put a shaking hand to his forehead. "I -- lost it, Zack," he whispered raggedly. "I completely fucking lost it. If you hadn't -- if I could have I --"

 "Understood, sir." The crisp tone was somehow bracing. Faintly Garibaldi-like. "Under the circumstances, completely understood. Don't think I didn't want to do the same thing."

 "I saw his face, and I just --" Sheridan's voice broke. "All I could see was that tape. His face on that tape, and Michael --" He closed his eyes again, pressing his fingers over the bridge of his nose. A deep breath. Calm, oh Christ he had to find calm again. "All those people," he continued after a moment. Shame made his breath catch in his throat. "God damn it, Zack." His face felt ablaze. "Watching the captain go plasma, damn it --"

 Allen cleared his throat. "All gone now, sir. Shipped off and taken care of. The deck crew --" His pause made Sheridan open his eyes, to stare at him suspiciously. "Well," Allen continued evenly, "I'm pretty sure no one will say anything. I'll see to it."

 "Thank you." Sheridan swallowed roughly. "I would have killed him, Zack, if you hadn't stopped me. You know that, don't you?"

 Allen gave him a slow nod. "Yes, sir. Maybe I do. But that didn't happen. And it won't." He produced a twisted half-smile. "Now if you don't need me at the moment, Captain, I better get back to the station house and see how our new guest is faring." The smile widened to a grin so cold Sheridan blinked with surprise. "Some of the men are taking Chief Garibaldi's absence a little hard," Allen concluded tonelessly. "I oughta go make sure nothing too bad happens."

 Sheridan watched Allen stride away, a new, more confident lift to his gait. You've got a good man there, Michael, he thought absently. I'm just now figuring that out. But I have a feeling you knew it all along. You have good taste. Well, most of the time.

 It was enough of a reminder to shake his meditation, and he felt himself begin to tremble again. Walking like an old man, he made his way to the lift. He punched the button, and then leaned against the wall to wait. His legs felt like jelly, no longer strong with righteous rage but threatening to fold underneath him.

Maybe seeing Alan Campbell is like catching a glimpse of what I could have been. Maybe that's why it scares me. And why I want more than anything to see him die. To watch him die, knowing I did it.

 He drew a shaking breath. I didn't kill him, Michael, he whispered silently. But I would have. And I wouldn't have regretted it. Not for a minute. I would have murdered him, for what he did to you. And I would have laughed when I stood over his dead body.

 Who am I?

 He almost fell as he entered the lift. Braced himself against one wall and prayed no one else would get on.

 By the time he reached his residence level he felt stronger. Buoyed by new memories. Campbell in custody. Michael safe, Michael, always Michael. Sheridan surprised himself with a grin, out of nowhere.

We won, Michael. We fucking won.

 He felt almost jubilant, suddenly. Striding with new energy in the direction of his quarters.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**    
Michael Garibaldi had always hated being in hospital. Laid up, in the way, no good to anyone. He'd been there before, more times than he really cared to remember. But in all those times he'd never realized that hospitals could be a good thing, as well. Never thought there would be a day when he would be glad to just lie there and let people take care of him.

 His stomach grumbled, and he glanced at the tubes in his arm. Hunger was something distant, happening to someone else. The tubes made sure he was fed, of course. He wouldn't starve.

He had a sudden impulse to grab the tubes, yank them out of his arm. Too much trouble. Far easier to simply lie here and not think, not take any action at all. Doing required moving, and he hurt too much to move.

 "Hey."

 The soft voice didn't shock him; he'd been dimly aware of people in his room for a few minutes now. Garibaldi blinked and turned his head slowly to look around.

 "I don't suppose I need to ask how you're feeling." Franklin smiled at him, but his vigilant eye flickered upward, to glance at readouts above Garibaldi's head. Down again. "Think you could drink something? You're pretty dehydrated."

 When he tried to speak, his voice wouldn't work. Too raspy to make real words, nothing but a hiss of useless air. Franklin nodded, as if he understood anyway. "Try some juice," he continued easily, handing him a sealed glass of something palely orange, with a straw. "Just a sip," he added, smiling again. "We'll see if it stays down, okay?"

 The juice was unbelievably sweet. Seeming to go straight to his head, a crisp sugary headrush. His stomach lurched, but then quieted, muttering sullenly. He took another sip of the treacly juice and sighed. "Wa --" He cleared his throat. "When can I go home?" he asked harshly.

 "I'm going to keep you here for a while, Michael," Franklin said quietly. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed, leaning on one elbow and watching Garibaldi taste of his juice. "I think you might be able to go home in a few days, but let's keep our options open. You've been through a lot. We don't want to rush anything."

 "No." Talking was very tiring, he discovered. "Feel like -- a bug under a microscope."

 "I can understand that. But just take it easy, okay? You're not ready to go home yet. Give yourself some time to get your strength back first."

 The buzz of the sweet juice was gone; he felt suddenly boneless, unutterably weary. The glass in his hand weighed about twenty kilos. "Okay," he whispered.

 

* * *

Sheridan came to visit the next morning. Or at least Garibaldi was pretty sure it was morning; the staff in the Medlab had changed, and that usually meant another day. Without sunshine it was hard to tell.

 "Morning," Sheridan said, grinning. "How you feeling?"

 Garibaldi yawned, and tried for a smile. "Like Rip Van Winkle. I think I've slept more in the past three days than the whole past year." He drew a deep breath, and then blinked. "Something smells good."

 Sheridan's grin turned secretive. "Keep it down," he hissed, glancing furtively over his shoulder. He produced a plastic bag, and took out something wrapped in foil. "I think this isn't on your eating plan," he continued with a chuckle. "But hospital food fucking sucks, and I know you like these."

 Eating? Garibaldi wanted to ask. I've had some crackers, last night. Does that count? But the aroma wafting from the little packet of food made his stomach groan happily. "Don't tell me," he managed, accepting the bundle gratefully. "Julio's?"

 "He said this was what you usually ordered. Hope he got it right."

 The burrito was still hot, and Garibaldi had to force himself not to wolf it down, mindful of the way his stomach registered the first savory bite of potato and egg. He made himself relish it instead, one judicious mouthful at a time.

 Sheridan didn't try to talk, but watched him eat, something shining and almost complacent in his eyes. When the food was gone, Garibaldi wadded up the foil and grinned at him. "Thanks," he said, stifling a tiny belch. "Man, that hit the spot."

 "You need to get your strength up, if you're ever going to get out of here." Sheridan took the trash and tossed it on the bedside table. "So," he continued, settling himself on the side of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

 Garibaldi felt his smile fading. "You've already asked me that," he said evenly. "And you're stalling. Aren't you?"

 The captain paused, eyes flickered downward. "Maybe," he answered in a quiet voice. "I wanted to see how you were doing, before --"

"Before what?"

 Sheridan cleared his throat. "I need to tell you what's been going on." His tone was suddenly more remote, crisper. "Catch you up on things. You ready?"

 Garibaldi nodded slowly. "I think so."

 "We caught Alan Campbell yesterday."

 His stomach lurched wildly, the once-welcome food now a leaden, acid weight. Garibaldi swallowed heavily. "I see," he managed. Nausea made him breathless.

 "I'm sorry," Sheridan blurted immediately, handsome face creasing with dismay. "I don't want to make you think about this, Michael, but I have to ask you something. I'm sorry," he repeated dismally.

 "It's okay." Garibaldi swallowed again, and closed his eyes briefly, willing his breakfast to stay where it belonged. "Ask me."

 "The tape, Michael." Sheridan seemed to age suddenly, deep lines dragging the corners of his mouth downward. "The tape gives us a case against him. To prosecute. But I have to ask you something, and I'm not sure how you'll feel about it. I need --" He blew a frustrated breath. "Michael, I need to know if you'll testify against Campbell, for the trial."

 "No."

 He hadn't planned it, and knew from Sheridan's disbelieving expression he hadn't expected it, either. "Michael, you can't --"

 "No, John." His throat was filled with acid, and he had to swallow yet again before he could make words come out. "You've got the tape. Do what you have to with it. I don't care." Was that true? He had no idea. "But I won't testify. I can't. I can't, John."

 "The tape may not be ruled as admissible evidence, Michael." Sheridan leaned forward intently. "If the judge advocate decides against it, we've got no case. I need you to testify. Michael, it can be private. You don't have to go to court, you can testify from another --"

 "Forget it. Make your case, or don't, but leave me out of it."

 His flat tone seemed to hit Sheridan like a slap; the captain drew back sharply. "You realize," Sheridan said tonelessly, "that Campbell could get away with this? You realize that if you don't testify, he could go free? Is that what you want, Michael?"

 Sudden anger made the nausea retreat. "What I want?" Garibaldi laughed once. "John, you have no fucking idea what I want."

 "Then tell me, Michael. Tell me, for God's sake."

 He sagged back on the pillows and closed his eyes. "I don't know. I don't know." Christ, he was tired. Too fucking tired to have this discussion, too tired to think about this, too tired to think.

 "I should go." Sheridan's voice seemed to come from very far away, rebuffed and pinched-sounding. "You're tired."

 "Yes, I'm tired." Garibaldi forced his eyes open. The sight of Sheridan's pained face sent a faint lurch of guilt through his belly, and he shook his head slowly, ignoring the stab of pain from his back. "John, I'm not going to testify. Nothing you can say will change my mind about that." He licked his dry lips. "But it's not because I'm scared, or embarrassed. It's -- something else."

 "What?" Sheridan asked bluntly. "What the hell else is going on, Michael?"

 "He was only doing what I wanted him to do."

 He watched Sheridan try to digest that. Handsome face pale, brow drawn into a furious frown. "You can't be serious, Michael," Sheridan breathed finally. He shook his head. "You can't believe that. Not --"

 "John." He was so fucking tired. The food in his belly felt alien, unwelcome. "It's the truth. If you don't believe it by this point, I don't know what I can say to make it any clearer. Arrest him, prosecute him, hang him by his toenails in the Zocalo and use him as a dart board. I don't care. But don't make me a part of it."

 "You already are a part of it, Michael."

 "Was." His mouth suddenly watered, bile rising in the back of his throat. "Was."

 This time he was a bit more prepared, and so there was time for Sheridan to grab a wastebasket for Garibaldi to be sick in. And then a nurse was hustling into the little room, making aggrieved noises when she saw what was happening, and Sheridan somehow blended into the walls, going as gray as everything else.

 

* * *

He looked at the drink in his hand, and wanted to hurl it across the bar. It was supposed to help, but it wasn't living up to its part of the bargain. He felt absolutely nothing.

 Well, that was a lie, wasn't it? He felt plenty. Just not the things he wanted to feel. Drunk, jovial, sleepy. No, instead he was angry, very wide awake, and stone cold sober.

 He wasn't sure what he had expected Michael to say. "Yes, John, I'll be happy to stand up in front of a courtroom filled with my friends and colleagues and spill the gory details of what Alan Campbell did to me?" How would he feel, in Michael's place? He had no answer for that, but he suspected he'd have reacted exactly the same way Michael had.

Sheridan sighed, and forced down another swallow of the good Irish whiskey. Which left him exactly nowhere.

 "Captain?"

 He looked up, into Zack Allen's features. A little tired-looking right now, a reflection of how he himself felt. "Mind if I join you, sir?"

 He shook his head, and watched Allen sit down, order a drink. There was a silence, while they waited for the order to arrive. And then Zack glanced at him over the rim of his glass, and Sheridan's heart sank.

 "The judge disallowed the tape, didn't he?" He didn't bother with small talk. It no longer mattered.

 Allen nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. Called it entrapment. Something like 'the fruit of the poisoned tree,' whatever that is. And without the tape..." There was no need for him to go on. Without the tape, they were fucked.

 "Where do we go from here, sir?"

 It was a perfectly logical question. And Sheridan had absolutely no idea what to say in reply.

"No tape." Sheridan slugged back the rest of his whiskey and grimaced tightly. "Well, the physical evidence is still there. The tape may be out, but Michael's injuries are there for all to see. At the very least we can hope for assault and battery."

 "After what he did?" Allen's snort was hugely evocative. "That's not enough, sir. Not nearly enough."

 "I know. Oh, Zack, do I ever know." Sheridan surveyed the ice in his glass. As cold as the frozen mass in his own belly. "Nothing would be enough," he whispered raggedly. "Nothing but something we can't do. No matter how much we might want to."

 He wasn't sure if he was talking to Zack, or to himself.

 

* * *

"Doctor?"

 Franklin glanced up from his work, blinking. "Yeah?"

 The nurse smiled a little. "It's Mr. Garibaldi. He wants to see you."

 He saved the file he'd been updating and hurried to the back treatment room. Garibaldi was awake, looking more alert than at any point since he'd arrived two days ago. Franklin grinned at him. And felt the grin fade, as he registered the feverishly intent look on the security's chief's face.

 "What's up, Michael? You feeling okay? Everything all right?"

 "I just remembered something." Garibaldi's hand went out to grip Franklin's wrist, harder than he might have expected. The blue eyes were wide with alarm. "I forgot all about it."

 "What? What did you forget?" Franklin frowned. "Is it something to do with the case? I can call --"

 "No, no," Garibaldi interrupted impatiently. "Nothing like that. A promise I made. I forgot it, Stephen. God damn it, I forgot."

 "What?"

 "Gertie. I forgot about Gertie."

 Franklin paused, and then hooked a foot around a nearby stool, hauling it closer so he could sit and not break the iron grip on his arm. "Michael, who's Gertie?"

 "You gotta tell Zack. I need him to bring her here. She's gonna die if I don't take care of her. And I promised, Stephen. I promised." Franklin was shocked to see tears in Garibaldi's eyes. "I can't let her die. I won't let her die."

 "Michael, no one's going to die." The doctor cast a quick glance at the readouts over Garibaldi's bed. Registered the elevated pulse, blood pressure skyrocketing. Some kind of panic attack, that much was clear. Not unexpected. "No one, you hear me. Not Gertie, not anyone." Whoever Gertie was. "I'll call Mr. Allen. I'm sure we can get this all straightened out real soon. You just lie back and relax, okay? It'll be okay."

 Garibaldi's face was pale with some combination of emotions Franklin couldn't come close to naming. "It's not okay," he choked. "I blew it. I said I'd take care of her and I didn't even think about her. She never even crossed my mind. She's just been sitting there, and I didn't make any arrangements, she's probably dead already --"

 "Michael." Franklin pried the fingers off his wrist with difficulty, and stood up to make his way to the tiny dispensary in one corner of the room. "Michael, relax. Take a deep breath, all right?" he called over his shoulder. He measured a syringe and tapped it carefully. "The last thing you need is to get worked up over this." Whatever it is, he added silently. He went back to the bed and took Garibaldi's trembling arm in a firm grip. "Close your eyes, okay? Just relax. This'll make you feel better, and then I'll call --"

 "Don't give me any more fucking drugs!" Garibaldi tore his arm away, and the beep of the monitors suddenly turned to strident alarms. God damn, heart rate was approaching 200 now. Franklin steadied his grip on the hypo and tried to smile reassuringly.

 "Calm down, Michael." Words weren't working; Garibaldi was freaking now. But he couldn't stop trying. Long enough to get close, get the shot done before his patient blew a gasket. He put a hand on Garibaldi's shoulder, and was flung away as Garibaldi fought to sit up, face gone purple with strain.

 "Doctor?" With relief Franklin recognized the voice of his assistant. "Everything all right here?"

 "Grab his arm," Franklin spat, fighting to get hold of one flailing arm while balancing the syringe in his hand. "He's going to hurt himself."

 It was a short, nasty struggle. Garibaldi screamed when they touched him, a wordless wail that set Franklin's hackles on end. And he fought them, much harder than his condition should have allowed. The strength of mindless panic.

Finally Franklin abandoned caution and simply buried the hypo in Garibaldi's straining shoulder, ignoring the man's howl of rage. And then held him down until the sedative began to take hold.

 "No," Garibaldi groaned, sagging helplessly back against the bed. Franklin swallowed hard at the tears that ran unchecked down the man's flushed cheeks. "You don't understand, I can't just leave her, I promised. I promised." The strong drug was already closing his wild eyes, but he made one last fruitless effort to sit up, breath whistling painfully through his tight throat.

 "Relax, Michael. Just lie back. Relax." Franklin could hear the tremble of shock in his own voice. "Everything will be all right. I promise. Just close your eyes. You need rest. Get some rest."

 In another minute it was over. Franklin checked the readouts long enough to see Garibaldi's heart rate and pressure begin to drop back to safer levels. And then retreated to his office gratefully.

 Zack Allen sounded alarmed to hear from him. "Doc?" the acting security chief asked cautiously. "Everything okay? The Chief --"

 "We had a bit of an adventure," Franklin said with more composure than he felt. "But Michael asked me to have you do something for him. Bring him someone. The name was Gertie, and I have no idea who --"

 "No problem," Allen interrupted softly. "I know what he's talking about. I'll be right down. Thanks, Doc."

 A quarter of an hour later Allen appeared at the Medlab, poking his head in Franklin's office. "The Chief awake?" he asked.

 Franklin shook his head slowly. "I gave him a sedative a little while ago," he replied quietly. "He was -- distressed. He'll be out for a few hours. Did you find this Gertie person?"

 He blinked as Allen produced a small, dried-up plant in a blue pot. "Doc, meet Gertie."

 "That's Gertie?"

 "In the flesh. Well, so to speak." Allen glanced down at the plant, and shook his head slowly. "Don't ask me why he's so wrapped up in it. The Chief's never been much of a gardener. But he treats this plant like it's some kind of religious artifact."

 Franklin walked over and took the pot from Allen's hands, surveying the brownish leaves critically. "Looks like it's in bad shape," he observed remotely. He glanced over at Allen. "A little while ago Garibaldi called for me. Nearly killed himself trying to get out of bed and go get Gertie. All this for a dying flower?"

 Allen shrugged, his expression mystified. "Search me, Doc. He got it about a week ago. Looked as bad then as it does now."

 "Well, I can change that. It's not dead yet; still some green amongst all the brown. My patients aren't usually plants," he added humorously, "but I'll wager I can treat it well enough. Gertie won't die."

 "He'll be glad to hear it. Thanks, Doc."

 "No problem, Zack. Thanks for bringing this over."

 He took a leaf sample, and some soil for good measure. In a few minutes he had discovered the culprit. A simple virus, probably carried in the soil originally but now infesting the little plant through and through. The computer spat out a short molecular recipe for the treatment, and after a bit of fiddling Franklin had laced the contaminated soil with a healing, self-replicating anti-viral compound.

 He put the plant by Garibaldi's bed. Close by, so that he would see it first thing when he awoke. And then he sagged back onto the stool and sighed gustily. "Everything's going to be just fine, Michael," he murmured, watching the man's face, now relaxed in reluctant sleep. "Even you. I promise."

 

* * *

He wasn't sure who he expected it to be. But it certainly wasn't who he saw in the corridor outside.

 "John. May I come in?"

 Sheridan blinked. "Of course, Zsuzsa."

 He made way for her, and waited for her to speak. Not a long wait. "I heard about the judge advocate's decision," she began heavily. Her lips looked pinched, an oddly strained look on her carefully-painted features. "It's true? The evidence was dismissed?"

 "It's true. The tape wasn't admitted, and Michael won't testify. It's over."

 "Over? Just like that?"

 "Not exactly. The judge-advocate dismissed the charges. But he did order Campbell to leave the station. If he returns, he'll be prosecuted."

 Her black stare was like a slap. "So that's it?" she asked bluntly. "That's all?"

 Sheridan sighed. "For now?" He forced a shrug. "I guess so."

 "That doesn't sound like the man who came to my office two days ago. Talking about honor, and responsibility." Szeci crossed her arms, gripping tightly. "What about justice, John? What about making this man pay for what he did? A slap on the wrist and a stern word? That's justice?"

 "What do you want me to do, Susie?" Sheridan snapped back, anger as instant as if it had only been waiting for a reason to emerge. Which it most likely had. "There're a lot of things I'd like to do. A hell of a lot. And they have nothing to do with a court of law, or at least not the courts we have here. Believe me, I'd like to make him pay."

 "So why don't you?"

 "I'm the captain of this station. I enforce the rules. Do I make an exception for myself? Do I let myself do something I won't let anyone else do?" He shook his head violently. "I can't, Susie. I may not always like the rules. I believe in them, most of the time, but I do recognize when they fail. And this time they've failed, miserably. But if I break those rules, I violate a lot of things I value very highly."

 "Rules." Her voice was suddenly quiet. A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. "Your rules. Not necessarily mine."

 He stared at her. "What are you saying?"

 "I'm saying you're not the only one who's angry here, John. What Alan Campbell did affects us all." Szeci took a restless step away, shaking her head. "You showed me my own negligence two days ago, and I can't forget that. Not now. Not when I know that the legal system has failed us."

 "I can't condone it, Susie. You know that. I'd like to. Oh, God, you have no idea how much I'd like to. But I can't. Don't ask me to."

 "I won't. I won't ask you to do anything. Only trust me. You have to live by the rules you represent, and I understand that. But I live by another code, John, one I value more than yours. I lost sight of it for a while, but I've gotten back on track. And I can't sit by and let this go."

 She drew a deep breath, and then startled him with a radiant smile, subtracting a decade off her age. "Go see Michael," she said softly. "Take care of him. And we'll handle the rest."

 Sheridan nodded after a moment, numbly. He watched her move to the door before he spoke again. "Campbell's leaving the station. The one thing the JA could do, force him to leave. You'll have to work fast."

 "Never mind that. Trust me."

 And then she was gone, and he wasn't sure whether to weep with frustration, or crow with satisfaction.

 

* * *

The transport was on time, for once. He had arrived early, just in case. But the ship was punctual, and disembarkation was both tidy and timely.

 He had only a picture to go by. It was sufficient. The face was burned into his brain. He wouldn't miss him.

 There. The one in the dark suit. A face that seemed to leap out at him. The one.

 "Mr. Campbell?" He kept his voice low, and friendly.

 Not even a trace of suspicion on the man's face. How nice. "Yes?" Gruff, disinterested tone. That would change very soon. He had no doubts of that.

 "Good. I've been waiting for you." He made a sweeping gesture with one arm. "If you'll come with me?"

 "I'll do no such thing." Campbell scowled at him. "Who the hell are you?"

 "Did I neglect to introduce myself? How rude. Let me remedy that. My name, Mr. Campbell, is Richard Arrington." He smiled winningly.

 "And I suppose that should mean something to me?" Campbell snorted audibly. "I'm afraid you must have me mistaken for someone else. Good day." He took a step away.

 And was halted by a firm hand on his arm. "I think you've misunderstood me." Arrington felt the smile slip away. "This isn't an invitation. It's a command performance. And you, my foul friend, are the star attraction."

 Finally, some recognition, however faint. "I don't like your tone," Campbell hissed angrily, the arm under Arrington's fingers suddenly tense. "I don't think I like it at all."

 "Be that as it may. I'm going to have to insist you come with me."

 "And if I refuse?"

 Arrington cast a meaningful glance over his shoulder, then back. "Do you see those three men standing over there?"

 He watched Campbell look, and then give him a furious glance. "Those are -- friends," Arrington continued smoothly. "They are here to assist me, should I need it. But I rather think I won't."

 "What the hell is going on here?"

 He let his fingers dig in deeper, and enjoyed Campbell's angry flinch. "It's time for a lesson, Mr. Campbell. A lesson you've needed for a long, long time. And I feel like teaching today, for some reason. I enjoy teaching. Especially when my students are as -- remedial as you."

 There was a look of alarm on Campbell's formerly placid, condescending features. As there should be. "I resent that remark," he retorted hotly. "And I can't say I like your tone. I suggest you let go of my arm, before I notify security."

 "I'm afraid I can't do that." Arrington grinned again, and gave Campbell's captive arm a vengeful twist. "You and I are going to spend some quality time together. Quite a bit of time, unless I miss my guess. I for one am going to enjoy it immensely. You, I very much fear, will not. But then, I can't say for sure."

 "Let me go!" A trace of recognition, however belated. Arrington wanted to lick his lips at the sight of the sudden terror in Campbell's eyes. "I'll give you money, I'll do whatever you like. But let me go."

 "I don't think so." Arrington pulled Campbell close, close as a lover. Whispered into his ear. "You may have escaped the justice of Babylon 5, Mr. Campbell," he crooned gently, relishing the tremble of the arm he held. "But now you face a different kind of justice. You are in my court now, and I have found you guilty as charged. All that remains is your sentence, to be carried out at my whim. And my whims, Mr. Campbell, can be very intense indeed." He leaned even closer, and bit Campbell's earlobe hard enough to draw blood. Grinned anew at the groan of pain he heard.

"It's time for your sentence to be carried out, Mr. Campbell. I'm very much afraid you won't survive it. But I give you my word as a master. It will more than fit the crime."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**    
John Sheridan watched the day's batch of reports scroll by on the computer screen. He didn't reach out to stop the seemingly endless list. Only watched as dozens of reports became a hundred, and then more.

 He was going to regret the past week. The past month. Work becoming more and more hopelessly backlogged, until the idea of finishing anything became something too monstrous to even consider. However briefly.

 He reached out to take a sip of his cool coffee, ignoring the taste.

 Four weeks since everything had fallen apart. Three weeks since a psychotic made hash out of a man who Sheridan had never even had the chance to really get to know. A man Sinclair trusted, a man everyone on the station respected. A man who now lived in silent, unmoving stasis in Sheridan's own quarters. Occupying space. Nothing more.

 I'm out of ideas. I've shot my wad, I've done everything I can think of. I've entertained, I've pleaded, I've cajoled, I've inspired. And sometimes it looks like it's working, but then I see that it hasn't, it hasn't made any difference at all. It's all just an exercise.

 He looked at the time. 1724. Time to leave off, close down, change the guard, hand over the reins. He didn't mind that part. It was later that he minded.

 I don't want to go home. I don't want to go home and see what is left of Michael Garibaldi.

 It had seemed natural to have Garibaldi stay with him for a while. A week or two, until he was fully recovered from his ordeal. Garibaldi had taken the suggestion passively, merely nodding as Sheridan waited for an objection that never came. They walked to Sheridan's apartment silently, Garibaldi with Gertie cradled to his chest like a beloved immobile child.

 He remembered trying, that first day. Filled with artificial cheer, straining to make things all right. Make Michael comfortable. It hadn't worked. Michael sat when Sheridan asked him to. Obeyed orders like a calm, emotionless automaton. But there was nothing of Michael there. Somehow, the essence that had been Michael was gone.

 And that had been that. Days turned into weeks. And there was a routine. Silence, and Garibaldi's patient care of a plant that flourished under his vigilant eye. Ignoring his own condition, neglecting to bathe, or shave, or do anything that might make any difference. Caring for Gertie, and sleeping. Those were the extent of Michael's life in Sheridan's home.

 Franklin said it was depression. A deep, clinical depression that simply had to run its course. Therapy was out of the question, at least for now. Anti-depressive drugs had been one option, but Garibaldi resisted them, with a fervor that was all the more shocking when contrasted with his usual passivity. It was too much of a struggle to get him to take them, and the one day he'd spent medicated, he'd been almost manic, the pills overcompensating to an almost frightening degree.

 Sheridan leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily. No one knew what to do for Michael, any longer. No one understood what was going through his head. Least of all Sheridan himself. Was this just depression? Was that all? Michael wasn't saying. Michael wasn't saying anything these days. Michael was a mute, horribly calm presence. His one preoccupation caring for Gertie. Gertie, whose leaves were now more green than brown. Thriving every day on the nurturing Garibaldi gave her.

 I wish you were that plant, Michael, Sheridan thought suddenly, closing his eyes. I wish I could water you, and feed you, and bring you back to life. But it isn't fertilizer you need. I don't know what will make you heal. Because I don't know what made you ill. I've asked, but you won't tell me. Maybe you can't. Maybe you don't know.

 But I'm watching you die. Not fast, at the hands of Alan Campbell. Slowly, an inch at a time. You want to die, still. And you're doing it, just by wishing for it.

 Don't die, Michael. Don't die, and leave me and everyone who cares about you with no answers, no reasons. Get better. Please, sweet Jesus, get better.

 The chime of his door startled him badly. He straightened awkwardly in his chair and brushed at his rumpled tunic. "Come," he called.

 "Captain." Ambassador Delenn made a tiny bow in his direction. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

 He managed a surprised smile. "Not at all, Ambassador. Please have a seat," he added, making a gesture at the chair in front of his desk. Waited until she sat gracefully, admiring her composure. So different from his own nervous state. Envying it. "What can I do for you?"

 Delenn gave him a cordial smile, that faded as quickly as it had come. "It is a personal matter," she began quietly, the dark eyes steady. "And I fear that I may be overstepping the bounds of propriety by discussing it. But I - have heard things. I wish to help, if I can."

 Sheridan looked at her for a moment, silently. Then he leaned back in his chair. "What kinds of things have you heard?" His question was soft. He already knew the answer.

 The Minbari drew a deep breath. "What I say to you here, Captain Sheridan, should remain private between us," she stated carefully. "I have no wish to add to the rumors already in the air. I am here to help, if I can. Nothing more."

 He nodded carefully. "I think I know where you're going, Ambassador. You're talking about Mr. Garibaldi."

 "I have known Mr. Garibaldi for two years now." Delenn seemed not at all surprised at his insight. Pleased, rather. Her steady gaze intensified. "I do not claim to know him well, Captain. Nor do I claim to know everything of what has happened to him. That has been a mystery to me, and so, I think, should it remain."

 He didn't have words to reply to that. Only nodded again, stiffly.

 "He is a stubborn man, Captain. He is a proud man, in some ways. But he is - more than what he appears. If he struggles now -" She broke off, brow wrinkling delicately as she considered her next words. "Mr. Garibaldi is an insightful man, but only so far as the outside world is concerned. He loves mystery. Puzzles to be solved, enigmas to be pieced together. If he struggles now, it is to solve his own mystery. A mystery he does not understand. Perhaps a mystery he has never recognized until now."

 "Ambassador, I don't think -"

 "What is the first rule of an investigation, Captain?" Delenn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is it not to find the source? Not the effects, but the cause?"

 "Motive," Sheridan echoed very softly. "Certainly, but-"

 "To find the cause, Captain Sheridan, you must extend your search. Widen your parameters. There are events that preceded your arrival on this station. Circumstances which may add to your knowledge. Recognize them, understand them. And you will have gone a very long way to finding the missing piece of the puzzle."

 He stared at her. "I have - ideas," he said after a moment, very softly. "Suspicions. But I don't want to push the issue, Delenn. How can I -"

 "How can you not?" the ambassador interrupted simply. Her smile was slow, and sad. "Knowing what you know, how can you not?"

 Sheridan paused. Glaring at her, hating the truth of her words. "You're right." The sentence hurt his throat. "I can't. Not any more."

 "Go to the source, Captain," Delenn whispered, eyes wide. "Take the step that Mr. Garibaldi cannot. If you truly wish to help him, you must do this. You must interfere. I do not know what has happened here. I do not know what will happen, if you take action. Mr. Garibaldi has been a friend to me, but I do not know his secrets. Perhaps you do, and if so, I believe you know what must be done. Do it, and believe in yourself."

 He gave her a curt, clipped nod. Mustered a professional, emotionless smile. "Thank you, Ambassador," he stated evenly. "I think we understand one another."

 Her answering smile was warm, somehow sad. "Perhaps, Captain Sheridan. Forgive me for interfering. And thank you for seeing me."

 "Any time, Ambassador." And suddenly he meant the words quite sincerely. "Thank you for coming."

 He watched her leave, a graceful quiet swish of robes.

 No, you don't know everything, Delenn. Not by a long shot. But in five minutes you've shown more insight than I have myself in months.

 Sheridan checked the time again. Time for him to be going home. Time to see what Michael was up to. He really should be going.

 And Delenn's voice - so soft, mellifluous - echoed in his mind again.

"How can you not?"

 He recognized the feeling in his belly. Hot, leaden, anxious. The feel of fear. Trepidation. Outright dread.

 It's a turning point, John. The road splits here. One way, or the other. But the road you choose doesn't just affect you. It affects him, too. It affects others. You have to believe in what you're doing. Don't do it halfway. Do it, or don't. But it's time to fish or cut bait.

 He paused, and then he saw something else. Michael, this morning. Seated on the couch in his grimy, cumbersome sweater. Reaching out to touch Gertie's brilliantly green new leaves.

 And then letting his hand fall, to lie in his lap. Motionless, frozen like a great senseless animal, caught in a cataclysmic, immediate ice age of pain.

 Sheridan watched his own hand reach out to the computer terminal in front of him. And heard his voice speaking. Words he didn't realize he would say, until now.

 "Computer. Communication, Captain John Sheridan. Security mode, personal frequency. Codeword: obsidian."

 "Recipient?" The computerized voice was coolly emotionless.

 He closed his eyes. "Ambassador Jeffrey Sinclair. Minbar."

 "Connecting."

 

* * *

He felt tears burning behind his eyes. Sniffed prodigiously.

 I love to cook. But there are parts I hate.

 He finished chopping the onion as fast as he could. Wiped tears from his cheeks with a towel and grimaced. A necessary evil. He was used to it. Worth the discomfort.

 He hadn't planned to cook tonight. Hadn't thought of cooking in a very long time. But the truth was, he was bored. Tired of sitting, staring, doing nothing. Decisions were so tiring. Cooking was not a decision, really. Only a necessity. But it was action, of a sort.

 Garibaldi scraped the chopped onions into the waiting pan. Listened to the faint sizzle as they met hot olive oil.

 It was the least he could do. The thought had come this afternoon, vague, amorphous. He was imposing. He was a guest, a visitor. And he'd done nothing since his arrival but occupy space.

Never mind that doing more than occupying space was a terrifying prospect. Action implied decision, and he was no longer very good at decisions. The choice of what to wear in the morning had become a dreaded chore. To avoid it he had worn the same sweater and loose trousers for seven days, until his own rather rank odor had finally forced him to find something else. He didn't particularly care if he stank. But this was Sheridan's home, and so Garibaldi found himself this morning, standing in front of the closet. Staring at the few articles of clothing that had accompanied his trip to stay here. Blue shirt? Or brown shirt? Black trousers or gray? Did it matter? He stood for a very long time, and the only reason he chose blue eventually was because it fell off the hanger when he touched it. Done.

 Somehow, though, finding something else to wear had touched off a slow, reluctant trudge of action. Clean clothes meant he needed to be clean, too. He showered, and squandered a full half hour of precious hot water. Mindlessly luxuriating in the heat, the clean smell of soap and shampoo. A glance in the bathroom mirror revealed the graying stubble on his cheeks. He shaved, because it was what one did, when dressing.

 Clean, and freshly dressed, other things had occurred to him. Slow, treacly thoughts that didn't startle him. Only happened. The apartment was a mess. He put things away, what he knew to put away. The vids John had brought from Garibaldi's own apartment, the ones he hadn't watched: stacked neatly. Putting away books, stowing things away. He changed the sheets on the bed, wrinkling his nose unconsciously at the faint animal odor.

 A period of time, lost, while he sat with dirty sheets in his lap. Missing time. It no longer startled him. It was just part of daily routine.

 The idea to cook was refreshing. He didn't have anything particular in mind, but pasta was always good. Easy. Requiring no thought. He minced garlic, soaked dried mushrooms in water, picked out herbs and spices from a badly-stocked cabinet. John wasn't a cook. There was little to choose from. Garibaldi had a moment's odd sadness: he missed his own kitchen. Everything placed where his hand could find them easily. Better quality, abundant.

A puttanesca, then. Not genuine, but the thought was there. His father had told him, years before, of the sauce they called whore's spaghetti. Made out of whatever was on hand, because prostitutes could only shop one day a week, in ancient Italy. Fresh ingredients didn't keep that long, and so women finished out their cooking with whatever had managed to survive that long. Anchovies, onions, olives, peppers, oil. Anything, whatever could be found. A puttanesca.

He found dried vegetables. They would take simmering, to bring out any semblance of flavor. Added water and put the lid on the saucepan. Dinner would be late. But it would be dinner, and he had actually done something. He felt oddly peaceful. Comfortable.

 

* * *

It took more than a quarter of an hour to connect with Sinclair. Closer to half an hour, and by that time Sheridan's anxiety had escalated to outright dread.

 We've only met once, and then briefly, Ambassador. You don't know me, and I don't know you. There are two things that connect us. Babylon 5. And Michael Garibaldi. I think you loved both of those things. I think you still do. And I'm calling you to tell you that one of them is in danger, and I don't know what you'll say to that. I don't know what you will do when you find out what has happened. I'm not sure I want to know. But I'm desperate. I have done everything I can think of, and nothing matters. Nothing matters, because the reason Michael hurts isn't here on this station. It's a long, long way away. All I can do is try to bridge the gap. Reach out, and hope that your love for him will mean you take my hand, instead of slapping me away.

 The screen flickered, and then the comm signal solidified. An inscrutable string of Minbari letters. "Connection established."

 Sheridan swallowed. Time, then. Time to face the music and start dancing.

 The face that appeared on the screen was both familiar, and not. He recognized Sinclair, of course. The hero of the Battle of the Line. Even if Sheridan hadn't met him, that terrible time during the Mars food riots, he would have known this face. Strong, craggy, handsome. Creased now in a cautious, startled half-smile.

 "Captain Sheridan?" Sinclair wasn't trying to hide his obvious surprise. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

 "Ambassador Sinclair. Thank you for speaking with me." His words sounded thick. Uncomfortable. His smile was tenuous.

 The glinting brown eyes narrowed the slightest bit. "This is a secure channel, Captain," Sinclair replied slowly. "I don't ignore priority calls. Especially not ones from Babylon 5. I take it this is an urgent matter?"

 Sheridan nodded slowly. "Urgent. And personal," he added, in a hollow voice.

 "Personal." The ambassador paused. "Then this is not concerned with the station?" he asked presently, without hurrying.

 "No. Not the station, Mr. Ambassador. Someone on it."

 "Who?" Flat. Curious, not at all worried. Not yet.

 It hurt to breathe, suddenly. As if the air pressure in his office had suddenly tripled. "Michael Garibaldi," he answered, in a strangled whisper.

 He didn't know Sinclair, really. He didn't know his mannerisms, his facial expressions. From what he had seen, back on Mars those years long past, Sinclair was a cool number. Sometimes even remote: known for thoughtful consideration, few hasty actions. A perfect ambassadorial choice, to be honest. Not a man prone to thoughtless reaction.

 But this wasn't Sinclair the ambassador, was it? This pale-faced man, staring through a computer screen with eyes that should have nailed Sheridan to his chair. A sudden, scorching intensity not eased by the great distance between them. This was Sinclair the man, Sinclair the friend. Perhaps even another Sinclair, and Sheridan was suddenly stricken, his stomach dropping until he thought perhaps he would vomit, from sheer dread.

 "Is he all right?" Clipped, jerky words. Words that stank of fear, riddled with emotion Sheridan couldn't begin to define.

He had to answer. Had to say something. Something honest. "No, Ambassador. He's not all right."

 Sinclair was known to be good at mediation. A diplomat. Poker-faced, unreadable. It was fortunate that such action was not needed now. His expression was suddenly raw. Pain, as shocking to Sheridan as it was clearly to himself. "Is he dead?" The brown eyes filled with a dread that dried Sheridan's mouth.

 "No. No, Ambassador, he's alive." Fast, reassuring words, can't stand that horrible look on his face, I didn't mean to imply it, I'm sorry. "He was hurt, but he's alive."

 When Sinclair's eyes closed, Sheridan felt as if a spotlight he hadn't known was trained on him had suddenly been extinguished. "Thank God," the ambassador breathed. When he looked at Sheridan again, his smile was rueful. Slightly embarrassed, fighting for equilibrium. "For a moment I thought you were going to tell me -" He broke off, frowning.

 "He's alive, Ambassador. But he's why I called you."

 "I see." Sinclair's expression cleared: curious now. Suspicious. "I think you'd better explain, Captain." Frosty, tense words.

 Oh, I'd rather not, he thought. I'd rather close this line and forget everything. Because what I have to say to you is something you really, really don't want to hear.

 "Yes. Yes, I guess I should."

 He took one last, shivering breath. And began to talk.

 It took a fairly long time to tell. He edited, of course. No huge gaps, but no unnecessary details, either. Just the facts, Sir. The facts as I know them. The fact that I introduced Michael Garibaldi to something that I didn't know was the key to his destruction. I handed a knife to a suicidal man, and showed him how to slit his own wrists. And then missed my chance to save him.

He stuck to the facts. Tried not to project. Didn't try to underemphasize his own role, but didn't assume anything.

And he didn't miss the slow changes in Sinclair's expression. The concern, as Sheridan told him of Michael's problems with the change in command. His slow recovery from his wound, and subsequent reluctant return to duty. The discipline issue didn't seem to surprise Sinclair. Wouldn't, of course. He knew Garibaldi's history.

 He had to swallow before telling the next bits. The actions Sheridan himself had taken, the response he hadn't anticipated. Sinclair took it impassively. No censure apparent. But the brown eyes seethed now, a growing cauldron of fiercely controlled anger.

 Nothing for it but to forge onward. The growing realization that Garibaldi's fascination with what Sheridan had shown him was not quite normal. The warning signs, signs Sheridan himself had dismissed far too long. Richard, and the sudden horrifying understanding of Garibaldi's motivations.

 Speeding now. His voice tripping over words in the hurry to get them out, tell this story and have done. Watching Michael. Trying to monitor a man who was impossible to control. A man who knew every trick in the book. The horrible night spent racing to find him, knowing that he had gone into the mouth of hell without a backward glance. With a smile on his face.

 Everything. Pouring out mindlessly, the flavor of a confession.

He had stopped watching Sinclair's face, some time previously. When he ran out of words, he remained as he was for a long moment. Eyes cast down. Fighting the tears that wanted to be released, that burned like acid behind his eyeballs. And then he made himself breathe, and looked up.

 Into fury the likes of which he had never seen before.

 "You bastard." Sinclair's voice was low, lethal. Nothing even remotely related to the cordial, politic tone of before. The handsome face was drawn with anger, etching deep ugly lines beside his mouth. "Bastard. You nearly let him get killed. You showed him this, and then you dropped the ball. What the hell were you thinking?"

 He let the words rain on him. More, a kind of ire he had never seen before, a fury so laced with terror and agony that he felt seared, blasted by syllables, until his skin was burned, crisped, fried away, leaving nothing but bleeding flesh behind.

 And in their wake, silence. Pregnant, anguished silence. Nothing but the truth.

 Part of the truth.

 Sheridan cleared his throat. "Ambassador," he began, distantly shocked at the rusty sound of his own voice. "I recognize the error in what I did. Believe me."

 "Do you?" Sinclair's lip curled, a snarl of unsatisfied anger. "Do you really, Captain?"

 "Oh, yes. Yes, I do. More than you can possibly know." He nodded rapidly. "But Ambassador, I called you not to confess, or anything else but to ask for your help. I can't undo what's happened. If I could, oh, God, I promise you, Sinclair, I would. I would do anything. Anything," he repeated, and his voice shattered on the word.

 Something about his tone was penetrating. Getting through the blazing fire of Sinclair's rage. Cooling, only slightly, but noticeably. "But you can't." Words still harsh, but not the whiplash of before. Sinclair swallowed audibly. "I should bring you up on charges for this," he muttered. "Your actions were reprehensible."

 "You can do that," Sheridan replied, startled at his own equanimity. "That's your call, Ambassador. But what you do with me doesn't matter now. What matters is Michael. And why this happened in the first place."

 Score one: the look that flashed over Sinclair's carved features was obscurely discomfited. "Yes." Reluctant, husked word. "The Michael I know - knew," he corrected himself after a pause, "wouldn't have done this. It wasn't - I don't think he would have been capable of this."

 "Which leads me to why I called, Ambassador. Why I told you this, something I never thought I'd tell a soul. Why I admit to you everything I did to move this along. Because you need to know. You, sir."

 The brown eyes had darkened to black. But there was little anger there, now. Only a growing recognition. "Get to the point, Sheridan."

 Sheridan smiled, bleakly. "The point, Ambassador, is that Michael Garibaldi was in pain a long time before this - situation started. The point is that he was in pain the first time I met him. He's been in pain since you left Babylon 5, and it hasn't stopped yet."

 He watched the handsome face on the screen pale again, until Sinclair looked sick. Old. The sight made Sheridan suddenly, horribly pleased. "I don't claim to know everything, Ambassador," he continued harshly. "But I know there was something between you and Michael. Something important. And when you left, he didn't get over it. He still hasn't gotten over it. You ran away, Ambassador, and you left unfinished business behind. I'm here to tell you that you have to finish it. Or a good man will continue to suffer. And unless something happens, and soon, I think he'll suffer until he finds a way to stop suffering. Permanently."

 Sinclair's voice sounded like breaking glass. "You don't know what you're asking, I -"

 "Oh, I do know. I know that he loves you, and you left Babylon 5 without a backward glance, Ambassador. You left without waiting to see if he was all right. You left, for whatever reason, and maybe you've felt bad about it, and maybe you've felt guilty about it, but not enough to do something about it. Maybe you hoped it would all go away, but I know that it hasn't. Nothing has. Michael Garibaldi deserves better than that," he hissed, and wanted to smile, sob, at the terrible recognition on Sinclair's ashen face. "You know it, and I know it. He loves you, Ambassador. He loves you. That's what it's all about."

 Sinclair's mouth worked, without releasing a sound. The handsome face had gone slack, all anger disappeared. Suddenly young-looking. Vulnerable. Defenseless.

"I loved him." Such a faint sentence, the computer almost couldn't pick it up. But the screen didn't waver, showing Sinclair's pinched, awful expression. Dread. Agony. "I love him. I don't want him to suffer. I didn't know. I didn't know it would happen this way, I thought he would be all right. I thought it was best. Fast, painless. Everything happened so quickly. There was no time, no time to think. Just to go."

 Sheridan nodded slowly. "But now you know," he stated quietly. The flood of righteous anger had vanished, as quickly as it had risen. He felt exhausted. Enervated, boneless. "The question is, Ambassador," he continued slowly, "what can we do about it?"

 Sinclair raised his hand to wipe at corner of his mouth, and Sheridan saw the trembling of his fingers. "I'm - not sure," the ambassador said weakly. "I don't know. I don't know how to respond. I didn't -" He cleared his throat uselessly. "I didn't know. Now Michael's been hurt, and I realize that I could have prevented this, if I had realized how much he loved me, how much it would hurt him to see me go. How do I fix this? How do I right a wrong that has nearly cost him his life?"

 "I can't answer that." Sheridan sighed. "I don't have answers, Ambassador. No one does. Michael's not talking. I don't know what to say to you."

 There was a quivering silence. Finally Sinclair cleared his throat raspily. "I believe some things are a lot - clearer now," he said, an artificial, ghostly smile appearing on his face. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Captain Sheridan."

 Sheridan blinked at him. "That's all?" he blurted, staring. "That's all you can say?"

 A cold returning stare. "What else do you want me to say?" Sinclair hissed, the faltering smile vanishing completely. "That I'm sorry? That I'm sorry Michael has suffered? Of course I am. I am much, much sorrier than you can possibly know, Captain. But sorry doesn't help. Right now I'm pissed as hell at you, and I can't even describe how I feel about what's happened."

 Sheridan nodded busily. "Fine. Be pissed, sir. Be as pissed as you like; frankly I don't give a shit." His smile widened, felt icy on his face. "But don't leave Michael out in the cold. God damn it, Sinclair, I don't know what went on between the two of you, but I do know that whatever it was, it's your responsibility, too. I need Garibaldi. I need a chief of security. This station needs him. Whether or not you're still here. Do you understand me?"

 "Perfectly," came Sinclair's eventual, glacial reply.

 Sheridan sighed. Leaned forward in his chair, felt the growing ache of his own tense muscles. "Just tell me one thing, Ambassador." There was no more anger. Only pain, and grief. "Tell me this matters to you. Tell me you love him. Do you love him?"

 He thought distantly that he might as well have aimed a PPG at Sinclair and shot him in the belly: the stricken, anguished expression that contorted Sinclair's face was electrifying. "Love him?" the ambassador whispered savagely. "You have to ask that? After all this?" The brown eyes were suddenly shockingly full of tears. "It's ripped me apart, Sheridan. Leaving him - It was like tearing my own heart out. And you ask if I love him? I've never loved anyone else. Not like this, not like him. Never."

 Sheridan just sat there for a single, dazed moment. Eyes trained on the haunted face on the viewscreen.

 I believe you. Dear God, I believe you. Because if you didn't, he wouldn't have responded to your leaving the way he did. He loved you, and you loved him, and you may have run because you were afraid, or you may just have been swept up and carried off by your job and your responsibility. I really don't know. What I do know is that there's a good, decent man, dying very slowly in my quarters. And when I look in your eyes, I see the same kind of death. I see pain that I don't even understand, but I recognize it. I believe you love him. I believe you.

 Sinclair's hand came up to press against one temple, lightly. "I have to go, Captain," he murmured thickly, eyes leaving Sheridan's to drop downward. "I'll call Michael. Maybe it will help if we talk. About - things. Work things out."

 "At the very least." Sheridan sighed gustily. "Do what you feel, Ambassador. But don't wait too long. All right?"

 "Agreed." A slow, heavy nod. "Good day, Captain Sheridan."

 "Ambassador."

 He watched the screen blank, briefly flashing the same Minbari symbols before returning to its customary ready state.

 I pray I did the right thing. And no one can tell me for sure.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter Twenty**    
"Captain."

 He was headed slowly down the corridor to his quarters; now at the sound of his name Sheridan turned, looking around gratefully. Stephen Franklin bustled to catch up with him. "Stephen," Sheridan said warmly. "What's up?"

 Franklin shrugged. "Thought I'd check in on Michael, before I go off duty."

 "Making house calls?" Sheridan asked, and grinned. "Well, that's where I'm headed, too. Might as well join me."

 "How's he doing today?" Franklin asked, as they continued down the hallway.

 Sheridan felt his smile slipping. "I talked to him at lunchtime," he answered slowly. "He seemed all right. You know."

 "Yeah. I know."

 There really wasn't any need to say much else. Yes, Franklin did know. He saw almost as much of Michael as Sheridan himself did. He knew what was going on. Same as a day ago, a week ago. Same tomorrow? Sheridan couldn't say.

 He approached his door with the same vague trepidation he'd come to recognize, the past few weeks. What lay behind it? What was Michael doing? Sleeping? He slept a lot. A sign of the depression, Franklin said. Or maybe just sitting. He did that, too. Sitting, staring, not seeing anything. It was maddening. Frustrating.

 He didn't expect what he found.

 The aromas were heavenly. Garlic and onions and savory things. Sheridan's mouth watered immediately. He waited until Franklin had come into the apartment before turning a wondering gaze in the direction of the kitchen.

 Michael, cooking. There were many, many things right about that image. Only one thing wrong. He hadn't done it once, since coming to Sheridan's apartment. Now he stood slowly stirring a pot of something that must be producing this wonderful aroma, looking up at their entrance, smiling hesitantly.

 "Wow, Michael." Sheridan couldn't keep the stunned grin off his face. "I don't know what that is, but I think I love it. What is it?"

 Garibaldi's smile widened. "Hell if I know," he said, but some color rose in the pale cheeks. "Kitchen sink sauce? You keep a lousy kitchen, John. This was quite a challenge."

 "One you appear to have been up for." Franklin brushed past Sheridan, and walked over to Garibaldi. "Just wanted to check in with you. See how you're feeling."

 The smile on Garibaldi's face faded, but didn't entirely disappear. Not yet. "I'm fine, Stephen." He gave another last stir to the pot, and put the lid on tightly. "Fine."

 "Sleeping okay? Stomach any better?"

 "Stephen, relax." Garibaldi shook his head, and turned on the water at the sink to wash his hands. "I feel fine. Really."

 Sheridan tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was suddenly too tight. Like a quick flash of lightning, illuminating a darkened landscape: this breath of normality. A glimpse of the Garibaldi that hadn't shown in nearly a month. Clean, shaven. Wearing something besides the baggy sweater he'd cocooned himself inside for so many days. What had happened? A good day? This was more than a good day, it was miraculous.

 No sooner had he thought it than he caught Garibaldi's eye. Smiled. And watched the blue eyes falter, flicker away again.

 He wanted to shout suddenly. Damn you, I saw it. I know you're in there somewhere. Don't hide again. Don't, Michael.

 "I should be going. Leave you to your dinner." Franklin inhaled appreciatively.

 "There's enough for three," Garibaldi said shyly, with a carefully careless shrug. "I got a little - carried away with the sauce. I could put more pasta on; I haven't cooked it yet."

 "Stay, Stephen." Sheridan grinned at him. "You don't want to miss Michael's cooking. Even if it is in my sadly neglected kitchen."

 A pause, and then the doctor smiled and nodded. "You don't have to twist my arm," he said ruefully. "I think at this point you'd have to throw me out."

 It was a quarter of an hour before they sat down to eat. Time for pasta to cook, and Sheridan and Franklin to set the small table. Companionable, surprisingly comfortable. Garibaldi wouldn't let them into the kitchen to help. "Too small," was his only reply, when Sheridan asked what else needed to be done. "You're in the way." Sheridan retreated with a small, astonished grin.

 There was pasta, and the sauce: some melange of ingredients, half of which Sheridan couldn't name, in spite of the fact they'd come from his own larder. Bread freshened a bit in the oven, a salad of slightly overripe tomatoes rejuvenated by a mustardy vinaigrette. Nothing fancy, but hot and delicious and satisfying.

 And conversation. Oh, how long had it been since there had been laughter in these rooms? Far, far too long. Franklin was at his dry best, spending almost twenty minutes spinning a tale about his first offworld assignment, a comedy of errors and mistaken identities that had Sheridan roaring with laughter, and even Garibaldi grinning. Sheridan's own story, anecdotes from his time at the Academy, a few especially effective practical jokes.

Garibaldi didn't contribute much to the conversation. But he smiled, and laughed a couple of times. Picked at his food, and looked pleased at how lustily the other two men were eating. There was no dessert, but with a mysterious grin Sheridan walked over to the sideboard and rummaged around, emerging finally with a long, flat box.

 "Holding out on us, John?" Franklin lifted one elegant eyebrow.

 Sheridan grinned. "More like saving for a special occasion. Why not tonight?"

 He released the seal with a flourish, and the plas cover popped open. And cast an expectant look at Garibaldi, whose eyes had gone very wide.

 "John," Michael breathed. "Those aren't -"

 "Yep." Sheridan sat down in his chair, leaned back expansively.

 "Chocolates?" Franklin sounded astonished.

 "Not just chocolates," Sheridan corrected, still looking at Garibaldi. "Champagne truffles. Swiss."

 "Teuscher?" Garibaldi asked quickly.

 "None other."

 "My God." Garibaldi grinned weakly. "John, those are the best chocolates anywhere. Anywhere. And a whole box -" He shook his head. "Had to have cost a fortune."

 "Not quite. But close." Sheridan pushed the box at him. "Have one."

 The expression that crossed Garibaldi's face as he bit into the candy was a reward all in itself. Ecstasy. Sheridan wanted to laugh with sheer delight. "Good, huh?" He leaned forward, and chose one chocolate himself. "Susan would kill me if she knew I'd been hiding this."

 "She doesn't have to know," Franklin mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate. "I won't tell if you won't."

 "No fragging way."

 They couldn't eat more than a couple apiece. Full already, and besides, Teuscher chocolates were not to be gobbled indiscriminately. Finally Sheridan resealed the box, and grinned at his companions. "Coffee?"

 "Already made," Garibaldi said quickly, a smile darting across his sugar-dazed features.

There was coffee, and more talking. Leisurely, not quite so hilarious as before. Garibaldi had gone quiet again, but he was listening, even if he wasn't saying much.

Sheridan took a sip of his coffee, and sighed. Looked over at Garibaldi with a replete smile on his face. "I could get used to this," he muttered easily.

 And then something happened, and Sheridan never knew quite what it was. Something that went by and was gone.

 This - distance. As if a cloud had covered the brilliant blue eyes, graying until the light was gone. Smile fading slowly, leaving only the new, familiar deep grooved lines along his mouth.

 "What is it?" He had forgotten Franklin, sitting stock-still in the chair nearby. There was only Garibaldi. "What did I say, Michael?"

 A pause. What was he thinking? Where had he gone, the place that took life from his eyes and left only aching grief behind? A chill, lost look.

And then Garibaldi blinked once, twice. Set his cup on the table carefully. "Nothing," he said slowly. "I'm just getting sort of - tired, I guess. I should go clear up." Standing, but he didn't look tired. Only haunted. Pale as death.

 "Why don't you rest a while?" Franklin darted a cautious glance at Sheridan, before standing up as well. "We'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

 Garibaldi stood still for a moment. Considering. "All right," came the eventual slow reply. No look at either of them. Nodding, walking away, into the bedroom.

 There was nothing to be said, right now. They picked up the dishes, stowed them in the cleaner. Put things away. And then Franklin reached out to stop Sheridan when he would have gone back to the living room.

 "John." The doctor's voice was tired, and raw. "What's really going on? What is it?"

 Sheridan simply looked at him. Too tired, suddenly. Too much, too goddamn much, Stephen.

 Franklin's eyes were beseeching. "It's so damn hard to watch," he whispered, keeping his voice low but adding every bit of fervor he could to the words. "We have to do something. There has to be something we can do, that will help him."

 Something we can do. "Yes," he heard himself say. "You're right. We have to do something." Wanted to add: I have to do something. It isn't for you to do, Stephen. As much as you care, this isn't for you to do.

 Something in his stony gaze made Franklin look away. "I should get going," the doctor murmured uncomfortably. "I - Thanks for dinner, John. I did enjoy it."

 "So did I, Stephen. Thanks for coming over."

 After Franklin left, Sheridan took his time cleaning up the kitchen. Tidying the dining area, spending an inordinate amount of time doing basically nothing. Trying not to think, if he were honest. He was tired, that much was true. Tired to the bone. Tired of worrying, and waiting, and hoping, praying that something would change, that Michael would get better, that things would turn out all right. He was tired of worrying.

 He glanced into the bedroom at one point. Watched Michael on the bed, already asleep, the curious curled-up position he always seemed to favor. Listened to the slow, even breathing.

 His steps were quicker as he walked away, back to the living area. Poured himself a drink, and savored the smoky malt whiskey.

 Everyone's stuck. No one knows what to do. And if no one does anything, this will never end. I can't stand it much longer. I know he can't.

 Stephen's right. Delenn is right. I have to do something. Something more.

 

* * *

It was a gamble. He had no idea if it would work. There were moments when he felt certain it would. And other, not so sanguine, when it struck him as meddlesome folly.

 After a point he stopped paying attention to either argument. What would be, would be. And he felt a little better.

 The first time he mentioned it to Garibaldi, he was met with pleasant indifference. The same indecisive, half-smiling reticence that was the hallmark of this man now. There was no curiosity, but no dread. He simply did not care, and that was enough to banish doubt forever. Whatever was to come, it could not be worse than this pale, lusterless existence. Only different.

 He went to a great deal of trouble to secure time for it. Time and resources. Of these troubles he said nothing. They didn't matter, in the long run. Nor did the troubles of others. What mattered was restoring the shattered shell of what had once been Michael Garibaldi.

 They departed without fanfare. After all, it was a short trip. They would be gone less than a day. It was only a shuttle, really. Back and forth, no disruption in routine or protocol.

 He watched Garibaldi carefully during the jump, and the subsequent travel time. Was relieved to see the flicker of reluctant interest. Not a flame, a spark only, but for a time the dull blue eyes brightened. Looked around, queried silently.

 By the time they reached the transfer point, the flickering ember of interest had faded. Dimming blue to gray, leaching the color from his face. It didn't matter. They were here, and it would progress. What Sheridan had put in motion, he would see through.

He smiled at Garibaldi, as they waited for disembarkation orders. Saw a smile in return, and it no longer mattered that there was little enthusiasm there. Garibaldi hadn't asked why he was along for the trip. Had accepted the invitation without any visible care.

 Sheridan's smile faded, slowly.

I think I have to hurt you one more time, Michael. And this may hurt you more than anything that has come before. But it may also heal you. Restore you. I hope you forgive me for it. I hope you understand why I'm doing this. It is a gift, and it is also a tragedy. All I can do is this, and hope that it will be enough.

 Their business took only a few hours. A brisk, animated session with the quartermaster. Waiting for transfers to be completed, requisitions to be filled out. Why was the commander of a station here for this job? It didn't matter. No one asked questions. Neither did Garibaldi. A silent, amiable partner.

 There were two hours until their scheduled departure. The time was now.

 He herded Garibaldi into an elevator. Waited for their arrival. Shepherded him out, into the vast observation deck.

Garibaldi blinked in the sun, squinting at him.

Sheridan smiled. "Michael," he answered softly. "Turn around."

 Garibaldi gave him a puzzled look. Then turned his head, looking over his shoulder.

 There. It was all done. He stepped back. Waited a few moments. And then there was the elevator, and doors closing, and he was away.

 

* * *

He wasn't sure what to feel. Bored. Restless. Tired. Or nothing at all. It was work to feel things. Much easier to let the sensations slide over him, off like water from the oily feathers of a duck. It was important to try, he realized. That was part of the trick. Try to feel. Even though it felt awkward, alien. Tiring.

 So he manufactured what he hoped was a smile for Sheridan. Why am I here? he wanted to ask. Curious, at least. Why did you bring me along, for this?

He watched Sheridan smile. A faint, odd sort of smile. Hesitant. Expectant. "Michael." His voice quiet. "Turn around."

 What are you talking about

 His head turned, and he looked.

 The air in this observation deck was very clear. Very bright. He felt as if he could see forever. Light-years, if he only squinted his eyes a bit.

 And there, against the doorway. An object so far away he could not possibly see it. Approaching, see, it was the air, it was the way his head felt, suddenly light, a balloon tethered to his neck by the thinnest string. Things were much closer now. This thing, this object coming toward him. Focus, he blinked his eyes and it was nearer.

 "Michael," the thing said, and his eyes were not clear at all now, blurry, what had happened to the light?

"Michael."

 His eyes were brimming over. Wide, unblinking. Mouth opening.

 "Jeff."

 And the handsome face, so filled with a kind of anxiety Garibaldi had never seen before, creasing now in a smile. A smile like the light that had fled this huge room, a smile that took all the light and focused it into a narrow beam, that seared through everything in its path, burning, blazing its way to his heart.

 "Jeff. Oh, Jeff."

 Strong arms holding him, and he could not even force his own arms to move, but only hang at his sides. Shock, joy, terror mingling into a boiling lake of feelings he had never thought he would find again. Was frankly happy at their loss, and now, oh, now they were back, and he was bathed in brilliance, awash with radiance.

 Hugging him, holding him close against this lost, familiar chest. His own arms finally moved, and held with a grip that felt like words, hands that recognized familiar flesh and cried out a frantic, ecstatic greeting.

 And then the hands on his face. Lifting, so that his streaming eyes met these beautiful, warm brown ones. No words. Nothing but recognition, the terrible, shuddering joy of seeing, of touching. Of believing.

The brown gaze left his for a second, flashed over his shoulder. And then back, and the smile beckoned him, approached until his eyes closed, burned by the raging brilliant fire.

 He had never thought to feel the press of these lips again. This flavor in his own mouth, once familiar, grown strange and revelatory. One kiss. The fire that blazed through the wreckage of the past few months, annihilating flames leaving ashes and rebirth behind.

 Parting, like the original sundering, an umbilicus sighing apart.

 He could not stop his eyes from wandering. Flickering back and forth, back again. Remembering the plane of cheekbone. The tilt of eyebrows, and memorizing again the tiny wrinkles at the corners of the eyes. Noble blade of nose, and this mouth, that opened now, and spoke.

 "Oh, Michael." The same voice, deep lovely bedrock. Eyes darkening, the hint of grief, or anger, or something else Garibaldi couldn't begin to identify. "Michael," Sinclair whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry."

 He wanted to laugh. To beat at the chest beneath his hands. To sag to his knees and clasp these legs, press his face against soft fabric and chain himself there. "Don't be sorry," he managed, in a strangled remnant of voice. "Don't be sorry, Jeff."

 "You've suffered. What I might have prevented, if I had only waited. Waited just a little longer. Are you well, Michael?" No lightness, now the laser gaze was grown murky with fear. "Tell me you're all right."

 His heart leapt in his chest. A singing note in his ears. "I'm all right, Jeff." Believing it, knowing it to be true. "I'm all right, and getting better. It's okay." Everything. "Everything is okay."

 Blazing eyes, a shout of happiness. "I'm glad. I can't tell you how glad I am."

 There was a pause. Time out of time, when there was a cessation of words, a communion, a one-time ritual of hands and fingers and eyes that locked and did not waver.

 I love you. I have loved you for so long, and now you're here, and we have this time, this moment. I don't want it to end. Never to end. What we have is not definable. What we have is not only our bodies, but our hearts. And our souls. I would give up my life for you a thousand times over. We've parted, and come together, and we shall part again. But for this one, tiny moment, we can say everything that has not been said. That shall never be said. But known. That I am for you, and you are for me. There were others, and shall be again. But in the beginning, and in the ending, there is only us. I am for you. Always.

 "I can't stay." Sinclair's voice broke the moment, softest words, the whisper of a chill wind. "I had to trick my way here in the first place. Much longer and there'll be hell to pay."

 He studied the brown eyes intently. Read the regret, the sudden swell of sadness. Mirroring his own.

 There had been peace for a moment, but now only chaos, filling his traitorous eyes with tears, making his hands flex convulsively in dark fabric. "Take me with you," he cried softly, and heard the echo of a sob in his own voice. "Let me come with you, and be at your side. Always. Let me be with you, please, Jeff." The cold, pitiless track of wetness down his heated cheeks.

 Fingers, stroking away the tears. Softest kiss in the corner of one eye. "I can't, Michael." Eyes filled with wonder, and love, and something like awe. "Your place is here. Where you are."

 "It's not," Garibaldi rasped harshly. "My place is with you." Breaking, shattering words, let me be with you, don't leave me again. "Don't- Don't leave me, Jeff."

 Now there was a tear on Sinclair's face. Two. Four. "For a while, Michael." Steadfast gaze, in spite of his tears. Clear, intent. "For a little while, that's all."

 There was another kiss. Soft, the barest touch of lips. The last feel of warm breath on his mouth.

 "I have to go."

 He nodded numbly.

Sinclair's mouth worked for a moment. "I wanted a chance to say goodbye, Michael," he whispered, and one single tear stood in his eye, shimmering in the ever-present light. "To say goodbye, and tell you that we will meet again."

 He made himself let go his hands. Dropping the tunic he still clasped. "I - I believe you." The quietest words. Most sincere. Of course. He was right.

 "I love you, Jeff."

 One hand, coming up to cup his cheek. Lingering intent gaze. "And I you, Michael Alfredo Garibaldi. I love you very well indeed." Finger stroking through the tears that could not stop, that would not stop. "And I tell you that we will be together again, one day. And then we will never part again, my love. Never."

 He was walking away. Garibaldi watched him go. Tall, graceful. Straight back, proud and beautiful.

 He watched. And when the figure was gone, and he was alone, he spoke again.

 "Goodbye, Jeff."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**    
At five minutes until their scheduled departure time, Garibaldi finally appeared. Bustling, no time for chitchat. A brief, unreadable look in Sheridan's direction, and then they were powering up, waiting for clearance, leaving. The blinding glare of the jumpgate.

 He set the autopilot. A few hours until they arrived at Babylon 5. Home again. With a little start he realized that was the first time he'd ever thought of the station that way. Home. But it felt oddly right.

 "How do you feel?" He was almost afraid to ask. Terrified to bring it up, what if he feels worse, what if all I did was fuck things up even more?

 A soft chuckle, making Sheridan's head whip around, suspiciously. But no. This smile was genuine, if a bit wobbly around the edges. Muscles he hadn't even known were tense suddenly relaxed.

 "How do I feel?" Garibaldi's eyes were fixed straight ahead, staring out at nothing. "Like I've been hit by a two-by-four. Right here." He rubbed his belly slowly.

 "I'm sorry I sprung it on you like that, I didn't know how else to-"

 "John." Garibaldi glanced at him. Blue eyes slightly bloodshot, tired. "It's okay. Don't be sorry. What you did was - was -" He bit his lip, clearly searching for words. "A gift. I should be thanking you for it. I will thank you, as soon as - As soon as -" He broke off with a tight sigh, glaring back out at the void.

 "As soon as you get through being pissed as hell at him."

 A startled flicker of eyes. "Pissed?" Garibaldi's cheeks were suddenly flushed. "I'm not - I mean, I don't feel angry." A pause. "No. I do feel angry, and I don't want to be angry, John, I don't want to be angry now. Not now." His face looked pinched. Miserable.

 "Be whatever you are, Michael," Sheridan whispered, urgently. "Just be. It's all you can do."

 A clumsy motion: Garibaldi, struggling out of his chair. "I have to walk," he rasped, his voice thick. "I just need to move, I can't just sit here."

 "Where will you go, Michael?" Sheridan was on his feet, without having thought about moving. He put a hand out to touch Garibaldi's arm. "Where can you go? There's no place, Michael, because it's all here. Right here."

 Garibaldi snatched his arm away, an abrupt, vicious movement. "You want me to say it for you, Michael?" Sheridan heard the flatness of his own voice, hated it. Grasped Garibaldi's arm again, willed his eyes upward. "You want me to say it? He was a bastard for leaving you like that. For never saying goodbye, for never calling. He hurt you, and it was wrong, and now you're angry -"

 "No." A curdled, sobbing shriek, that set Sheridan's hair standing on his neck. The face he saw was almost unrecognizable. So contorted with a terrible mixture of pain, and rage, and grief. "No, he's not a bastard, he's not." Garibaldi wrenched his arm away again, and then slapped Sheridan's chest hard, almost a punch, making the captain stagger a little. "He hurt me, but he didn't mean to, it was just stupid, I don't know, I just don't know -"

 Sagging, and Sheridan was there, feeling the painful wail of his stressed back as he caught him, bore him down. Pulling him close, even as Garibaldi wrestled against him, arms flailing, beating mindlessly against Sheridan's back, shoulders. "Let go, Michael," Sheridan whispered fiercely. Ignoring the frantic buck of negation. "Just - let go. Let it out."

 "He left." A harsh, terrible voice, strident in Sheridan's ear. "He left me, John, and he didn't even wait around to see if I would live or die, or find out what happened, he just left, and when I woke up I didn't know anything, all I knew was that I was alone, oh Christ, so alone."

 "I know." Crooning now, feeling the taut body in his arms shivering spasmodically. So much tension. So much pain, locked away for so long. "I know, Michael."

 "I love him." Garibaldi's voice was breaking now, shuddering before the onslaught of something Sheridan could only imagine. He was vaguely glad he couldn't see Michael's face. "Oh, God, John, I love him and when I asked to come with him he said no, I begged him, I begged him, John." A long, gulping breath.

 "It's okay, Michael." Sheridan pulled him closer, not much resistance now. "Tell me. Tell me."

 There was a real sob. Jagged, painful to hear. "I don't know how to do it now. I don't know how to play the game. Nothing makes sense any more. I can't do it, John, I can't." Words cut off by another wracking sob.

 He felt it when Michael let go. Something like a tiny, hard convulsion. A sharp quiver, the sing of strained muscles. And then he was crying, deep, soundless sobs that jolted Sheridan's body as well as Garibaldi's. Buried against his chest, hands clutching his shirt, bunching uselessly.

 "That's it, Michael. Oh, Michael, let it out. Let it out." He didn't think Garibaldi could hear him, but it didn't seem to matter that much. Only talking, letting the sound of his voice reach out, hold Michael the way his arms held his body. Slowly stroking Garibaldi's hitching, iron-hard back.

 This is the way home, Michael. It hurts now, but it won't hurt like this forever. Not if you let go. You can cry, and you can scream at me, you can do whatever you want. I'm not going any place. Staying right here. Let it out, Michael, and let it stop destroying you.

 After a very long while, he thought Michael had gone to sleep. The crying had slowed, halted, some time ago. Garibaldi lay so still, he had to be sleeping.

 But no. When Sheridan shifted, unwilling but listening to the cry of his own cramped muscles, Garibaldi stirred. Looked up at him with eyes that were horribly red from weeping. But clear.

"Thank you. Thank you."

 Sheridan made a strangled sound, wordless, and hugged him close.

 

* * *

They said nothing the rest of the trip. Docking at the station, making their way back through the clanging, crowded hallways. Sheridan saw no one he knew particularly well. No need for conversation. That was good.

 His quarters seemed hushed, somehow. The air vibrating with something undefinable. Sheridan tossed his jacket over the couch, and heard Garibaldi walk across the room, to stand indecisively by the entrance to the kitchen. Dinner. It was time for supper. Sheridan wasn't hungry. Not in the slightest.

 He didn't really consider what he would do next. Just acted, for once. Not caring, not pondering the possibilities, the ramifications. He looked at Garibaldi's white, tense face, and he had to move. And he saw Garibaldi move, too, with more purpose than he had seen in months.

 The minute he took Michael in his arms, he knew what this was. No tender lovemaking, no heartfelt expression of love. But bare need, need they both felt. Nothing noble about it. Something raw, almost terrifyingly intense.

 The touch of Michael's mouth was pure fire. Blazing through Sheridan's veins, descending to explode in his belly, his groin. A moment to pry their mouths apart, and he saw the mindless passion in the sparking blue eyes. Burning with something that wasn't love, but something that would do, something that was all either of them needed at the moment.

 "John." Harsh, grating voice, deep. Garibaldi's breathing sounded like a freight train. "God, John."

 "Yeah." He laughed once, crazily, and took Michael's open mouth again ruthlessly.

 Somehow, into the bedroom. Working at getting these useless clothes out of the way, fighting to keep the connection of a kiss, not a kiss, an assault, mauling Garibaldi's mouth, no more eager than the lips that fought with his own, the tongue that struggled for dominance. The sound of ripping cloth: Sheridan had no idea if it was his own shirt that tore, or Michael's. It didn't matter in the slightest.

 Falling on the bed. For a moment Sheridan lay beneath Michael's heavy, muscled body, and he had a shock of attraction, a brief, stunning flash of yearning. And then he snarled, and flipped him over, laughing again at Garibaldi's muffled grunt. Heard their teeth click together as he pressed himself down, raving insane kissing. He could drown here. Face buried in Michael's sweating, corded neck. With Michael's hands tangled in Sheridan's hair, the sound of his inarticulate voice snarling in his ear.

 And then he pushed him back, until there were inches separating them. Gazing down at the panting, gleaming face beneath him. "What do you want, Michael?" he croaked unevenly. "Want it all? Do you?"

 "Fuck, yeah." Nothing friendly, nothing loving in his tone. Garibaldi's grin was a snarl. He lurched once under Sheridan's hands, mouth open, yearning upward. "All of it, John. All of it."

 Pushing him down once again. Harder this time. Sheridan raised up on his knees, fumbling in the drawer beside the bed. Grabbing for the lubricant that lived there. And feeling Garibaldi's greedy, hungry hands on his belly, ignoring his warning, mouth finding one of Sheridan's nipples and inhaling it. Sheridan arched his back, and a groan ripped from his throat. "Fuck you," and howled as Garibaldi bit the nipple in his mouth, worried at it, growled around it.

 Slamming him back down on the bed. Brutal hands, they would both have bruises in the morning but he didn't care in the slightest, and he didn't have to ask to know Garibaldi didn't, either. Slick stuff on his hand. He grinned dizzily. "Spread your legs for me, Michael. Show me where you want it."

 A hot stare. And then Garibaldi's thighs were open, legs in the air and Sheridan thrust his hand between, laughing at Michael's throttled groan as fingers found his opening, entered him without pity, without hesitation.

 There was a moment, as he lay poised to work his way inside. A moment of stillness. Looking down at Garibaldi's face, seeing the tears that fought with lust for dominance. "You're sure?" He couldn't help asking. A second of sanity.

 Michael's features were twisted with something: rage? Passion? Terror? "Fuck yeah, I'm sure." His voice broke on the last word. A twist of his hips under Sheridan's hands, urgent. "God damn you, fuck me. Just shut up and fuck me."

 He smiled, and did just that.

 Hard, fast, had he ever in his life taken someone so quickly, or so relentlessly? And yet Garibaldi matched him every step of the way. Groaning, yelling his name, not Sinclair's name, no, not tonight but only Sheridan's name, John. Sounding like a prayer, or perhaps a curse. Every repetition sent a shudder down Sheridan's spine.

 No easing along, no, this was serious fucking, and he didn't care how close Garibaldi was, didn't care that his own hand had gone to encircle Michael's fever-hot cock, he only knew that the embrace of this flesh was what he wanted. To be housed inside this body, for however long that might be. He shivered, and cried out, and knew it couldn't be that long. But Garibaldi's writhing hips urged him inward again, and he didn't pause. Thrusting until he believed his balls must simply explode, and then arching his back, screaming in wordless triumph. Just barely, as if from another room, he could hear Garibaldi's answering shout. Feel the sudden slickness in his hand, the wet way their bellies suddenly slapped together.

 He found himself lying atop Garibaldi. Wanting to move, utterly unable to for a moment. A succession of random thoughts, of which the most vivid was an image of himself: linked to the machine that had taken part of his own life force and given it to the dying man now panting beneath him. He felt right now as if he'd just spent another hour on that same machine. Wondered vaguely how many more gray hairs he had.

 When he tried to roll away, strong hands held him jealously. "Stay here." Nothing at all submissive about that voice now, and that didn't really matter, did it? He was too tired to move. Sapped, sated, boneless.

 He fell asleep with Michael's wordless hum of contentment in his ears.

 When he awoke, later, it was to find himself still partly cushioned on Garibaldi's body. Not fully, any longer, but cradled on the broad chest. Not holding but being held. He looked up slowly, and the motion made blue eyes open, smile slowly at him.

After a while there was lovemaking. Much slower this time: they were exhausted. But not used up. Only thoughtful, taking their time, no violence but contemplative, musing kisses, the trail of wet loving mouths over skin still salty with sweat. It seemed natural to lie on his back, to feel Michael straddling his hips, positioning himself slowly, Garibaldi's body opening eagerly for him. Careful, no rushing, neither of them wanted this to end quickly. He looked up at Michael's face, creased with concentration, then clearing, softening as Sheridan moved within him, uttering a faint, guttural cry of pleasure.

 Sheridan came first, a jolting, heated rush. And then took Garibaldi's cock in his own hand, still seated on Sheridan's slowly softening flesh, and urged him to his own release, laughing as he spurted mindlessly, muscles flexing sharply.

 Now it was Garibaldi who lay atop Sheridan, kissing him slowly, grinning as Sheridan gave an exhausted groan.

 A few minutes later, Garibaldi was asleep again. So soundly he appeared almost comatose, tucked against Sheridan's side, connected by arms and legs like a sort of much-loved symbiote.

Sheridan closed his eyes. Breathed the warm, gamy, familiar scent of the man he held. Felt himself smile, before sleep took thought away. ~~~~~~

He awoke with empty arms, and was immediately terrified.

 Where did you go, where are you?

 No sign of him. The apartment was terribly empty. Forbiddingly silent.

 Sheridan forced himself to shower, a fast dart under the water. Dressing as quickly as his shaking fingers would manage.

 The hallways were still relatively empty: it was early, then. The hall chrono confirmed it. 0623. Where was he? Michael, where did you go? There was an odd taste in Sheridan's mouth. Metallic, brassy. Bright tinfoil taste of fear.

 He worked his way to the Zocalo, more people, and there was a familiar face, at a table. "Stephen." Not bothering to disguise the terror in his own voice. Franklin's expression was startled.

 "John. Man, you look like hell."

 Building frustration in his chest. "Stephen, have you seen Michael this morning?" The thread in his voice: not only worry. Close to hysteria. He was so tired, but fear jangled in his bones, made his hands shake even more.

 "Whoa, calm down, John." Franklin smiled at him. "It's okay. Really."

 Walking with him down another corridor. Slowing, and pointing with his chin, ahead. "See? It's okay."

 Who was this stranger, dressed in gray? Standing straight, looking almost as tired as Sheridan felt but also peculiarly radiant. Talking with Zack, a handful of others in matching uniforms.

 Garibaldi glanced over at him. A quick smile. A tiny shrug: sorry, I had work to do. Lots of things to catch up on. You know how it goes.

 His knees felt suddenly weak.

 There is nothing more right than what I see now. A place for everything, and everything in its place. You're back, Michael. You're back.

 A chuckle at his side, that made him look around curiously. Franklin's face was creased in a broad grin. "You know, John," the doctor said mildly. "I think just maybe things can get back to normal around here. Finally." He touched Sheridan's shoulder lightly, and turned away.

 Another glance at Garibaldi. Watching him walk away, some intense conversation with Zack, gesturing at the data pad he held. Garibaldi looked faintly annoyed. The expression made Sheridan want to laugh, suddenly. Joyfully.

 You looked a little pissed off, Michael. But you also look happy. Happy to be back.

 It feels right. Normal. What a concept. What an absurd, wonderful concept.

 He went back to the Zocalo. Another hour at least, before he was due in C&C. Time for breakfast, or at least coffee, definitely. He was still tired. But his hands no longer shook. He could rest later. There was nothing but time.

 

* * *

 _Lo duca e io per quel cammino ascoso_    
 _intrammo a ritornar nel chiaro mondo;_    
 _e sanza cura aver d'alcun riposo,_

 _Salimmo sù, el primo e io secondo,_    
 _tanto ch'i' vidi de le cose belle_    
 _che porta 'l ciel, per un pertugio tondo._

_E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle._

The Guide and I into that hidden road   
Now entered, to return to the bright world;   
And without care of having any rest

 We mounted up, the first and I the second,   
Till I beheld through a round aperture   
Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear;

 Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars.

  **FINITO**

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to A., S., J., and K., for all their help, support and advice. EB
> 
> You can find the prequel to this story, 'The House of Flesh' [here](http://web.archive.org/web/20021006103947/http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Atrium/1628/house.html) (you should read it after you've read 'The Hammer and the Stone') There is also an epilogue you may want to read, 'Benedictus' that you will find [here](http://web.archive.org/web/20021115054231/http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Atrium/1628/benedict.html).


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